


No Longer Mourn for Me when I Am Dead

by BittersweetNightshade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, BAMF John, Depression, Drug Use, Epic Friendship, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, Major Character Injury, Moriarty's legacy, PTSD Sherlock, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Returning Home, Sherlock Whump, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, all the angst ...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:37:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3593187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BittersweetNightshade/pseuds/BittersweetNightshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr John Watson was a very forgiving person. He certainly was able to forgive a great deal of things. But as he stood there, looking into his former best friend's eyes, those pale grey eyes that once had sparkled with interest directed at John, all he could feel was anger: unmasked, naked rage that he had never experienced before...</p><p>Sherlock returns from the dead and is soon forced to find out that he has lost everything. John can't bring himself to forgive his former best friend, leaving Sherlock in utter despair. However, as Sebastian Moran enters the picture, he wants to finish what Moriarty started, burn Sherlock's heart out, and John will have to face his own guilt if he wants to save Sherlock - and himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's the Point?

**Author's Note:**

> Dear reader,  
> this is my first fanfic and I really hope you enjoy it. Unfortunately, English isn't my native language. Yet, this is my 14th year of learning English and I am now studying to become an English teacher. If you spot any language errors, please do not hesitate to point them out to me. Nonetheless, if you like my work and didn't find my linguistic proficiency all that appalling, kudos or comments also wouldn't go amiss. :)  
> Love,  
> BittersweetNightshade
> 
> PS: The title is borrowed from William Shakespeare's "Sonnet 71".

 

Before us great Death stands

Our fate held close within his quiet hands.

When with proud joy we lift Life’s red wine

To drink deep of the mystic shining cup

And ecstasy through all our being leaps—

Death bows his head and weeps.

**“Death” by Rainer Maria Rilke**

 

***

 

Der Tod ist groß.

Wir sind die Seinen

lachenden Munds.

Wenn wir uns mitten im Leben meinen,

wagt er zu weinen mitten in uns.

 

**"Der Tod ist groß"** **by Rainer Maria Rilke (German original)**

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dr John Watson was a very forgiving person. He certainly was able to forgive a great deal of things. But as he stood there, looking into his former best friend’s eyes, those pale grey eyes that once had sparkled with interest directed at John, all he could feel was anger: unmasked, naked rage that he had never experienced before. He wanted to hurt Sherlock like he had hurt him. How could Sherlock just stand there, his facial expression set in stone, no reaction, none at all? Did he have any idea what he had put John through? That was it. He’s had enough.

 

_Two days earlier._

Sherlock looked down at his hands. That nasty red scar just above the joint of his left thumb... where did that come from again? After two seconds of the most unsettling blankness in his mind it came back: Yes, cigarette butt, beginning of captivity, Serbian soldier, thirty-two, no girlfriend, occasionally sleeps with commanding officer, serious smoking habit, big dog. He blinked repeatedly, trying to urge down the panic that rose in his throat like bile. Why had it taken him so long to remember? Stupid.

“... to ensure that you’ll have everything you need. Sherlock? For god’s sake, are you listening?”

He didn’t react at all until Mycroft gently put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Sherlock snapped out of his trance instantly, his eyes betraying his terror as he flinched away from the light touch like a wild animal. Mycroft’s air of annoyance gave way to concern at his sibling’s distress.

“You’re safe now, Sherlock. Everything’s going to be alright.”

“It’s nothing. I ... I just need a moment ...”, Sherlock replied and, since he didn’t trust his legs to carry him through the act of fleeing to the private jet’s lav at the moment, he simply drew his legs up to his chin facing the other way, ignoring the spikes of pain his barely healed ribs sent through his chest.

Mycroft just sighed and repeated what he had stated earlier: “I have a physician standing by as soon as we reach London. Since your condition is no longer life-threatening, you can hole up in Baker Street if you want to until we can notify the press of your miraculous resurrection.

Sherlock gasped almost imperceptibly before answering: “What about ... ehm ... what about John? Shouldn’t we I don’t know ask him or something if he still wants to have me there?”

“Sherlock ... He isn’t there anymore. He’s moved on, met a woman, moved out. They are separated now, but he stayed in the other flat. You can go home without his permission.”

Home. What a strange concept. Sherlock had always thought that this expression applied to a place, a geographical entity. But suddenly it didn’t feel right to call Baker Street ‘home’ anymore. Why didn’t it feel right?

Sherlock felt cold. Cold and alone. He wrapped his arms around his shaking frame, even though he knew that his state didn’t have anything to do with the temperature in the room. How things had changed in those three years.

 

*****

 

As John locked the door to his flat in Lambeth, he heard a car pull over right behind him. He didn’t pay any attention, the days when it had been necessary to perceive London as a battlefield were over. The ever-alert part of him had died on a rainy day three years ago on the pavement in front of Saint Bart’s Hospital along with a certain Consulting Detective.

Hurriedly, he turned to the right, he didn’t want to be late for his regular night out at his favourite pub with Greg after all.

“Please get in, Dr. Watson, we need to talk.” John stopped immediately, knowing exactly where to put this posh accent. He spun around, not surprised by the ever-present umbrella despite the cloudless evening.

“Go away, Mycroft. We haven’t spoken since ... since ... No need to start now. ”

“The situation has changed. Please, John, get in.” John huffed, completely taken aback by the so very un-Mycroftian pleading tone.

“I’m sorry, Mycroft. I can’t be dragged into something like this again. I told you after Sh ... after he ... died that I can’t help you and your super-secret minions with any of your super-secret missions.”

Mycroft moved a few steps closer, obviously contemplating the best way of vocalising something. After several agonising seconds, during which John thought about turning around and simply leaving the bloody British government on its bloody own on the bloody pavement, Mycroft stated: “John, it’s about Sherlock. He’s alive.”

 

*****

 

Alive. John felt as if that word had turned into a rope, slowly tightening around his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

They strode through the dimly lit corridor in Mycroft’s office building and John was desperately trying not to fall down, not to show any weakness in the company of Sherlock’s brother. They hadn’t spoken much during the ride.

Mycroft had simply stated that Sherlock was alive, that he had recently returned from an undercover job in Serbia and that faking his suicide was part of the scheme meant to bring down Moriarty. When they reached an inconspicuous set of doors, John simply pushed through without waiting for Mycroft to announce him. All colour drained from John’s face as he realised that Mycroft had spoken the truth.

There he was, clad in his usual perfectly tailored suit, dark curls longer than before The Fall, partially obscuring these gray eyes that once betrayed the intelligence behind them and that were now clouded with fatigue. Sherlock’s head snapped into the direction of the noise the door made when crashing into the wall.

He stared for full five seconds at John, John staring back. Then he jumped to his feet, swaying slightly, clutching one white-knuckled hand to the chair he had been sitting on, while the other sneaked to his left side. A faint spark of doctorly concern arose in John but it momentarily drowned in an ocean of anger.

They continued staring at each other until John found the strength to speak: “How could you? Mh? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? You. Killed. Yourself. I front of me. So that you could play hide and seek. Why didn’t you bloody tell me?”

Now it was John’s turn to desperately reach out to the next best thing (a bookshelf) to keep him from collapsing. Sherlock looked at the floor, evidently hurt by the sheer amount of hatred in John’s voice.

“I ... I couldn’t John. In order to bring down Moriarty’s web my death had to be convincing. Your grief had to be convincing. You are a terrible liar, there was no other way. I’m sorry.”

John just continued staring, a manic glimmer in his eyes. “You’re sorry? You’re fucking sorry? You utter bastard! So it’s my fault now that I’m not a high-functioning sociopath like you, capable of lying to every person I know! That’s all you have to say, that you’re bloody sorry?! You goddamn arsehole stole three years of my life. _Three years_ , Sherlock. How can you just stand there? Hm? You don’t care at all, do you, Sherlock? How could I be so fucking stupid to think you cared?”

Sherlock tried to say something, but the disgusted look on John’s face made him shut his mouth again. John had to close his eyes for a moment to calm down. His hand clung desperately to the bookshelf, because his knees threatened to buckle under an invisible weight and it was extremely difficult to breathe.

_God_ , how could Sherlock just stand there, his face a perfect mask of indifference? How much he craved an emotional reaction from his former flatmate, a magical explanation for the horrible ordeal Sherlock had put him through that would make him forget his anger.

But Sherlock just waited for John to continue yelling at him. John realised that he had no more strength to cry, no more tears to shed and that he had only one emotion left for the man that had once been his entire life: bottomless hatred. That was it. He’s had enough. “I don’t want to see you ever again. You should have stayed dead.” John breathed quietly through gritted teeth before storming out of the building and out of Sherlock’s life, his psychosomatic limp returning when he reached the street.

 

It took Mycroft a full minute to approach Sherlock who seemed to be frozen in place, the hand on his ribs shaking violently. “Sherlock? Sherlock!” Mycroft managed to catch his brother as his knees gave out under him and directed his fall to the nearby chair.

“Just breathe, calm down. It’s going to be alright.” As soon as Sherlock’s frantic breathing had levelled out somewhat, Mycroft fetched a second chair and sat down next to his sibling’s trembling frame. He lifted his left hand with the intent of placing it on Sherlock’s shoulder, but the movement faltered as he recalled his traumatised brother’s aversion to touch on the flight back to England.

After a long and impermeable silence, Mycroft finally voiced the question troubling him: “Why didn’t you tell him that you saved the lives of three people, including his, by jumping off that roof? He surely would have -” Sherlock tensed visibly before cutting him off. “Yes, Mycroft. He would have stayed, he would have felt obligated to do so.”

Sherlock swallowed before continuing with a wavering voice: “I ... I didn’t want him to stay out of a sense of duty. Coming back was selfish ... I should have known that he would not be able to forgive me. I don’t blame him. What I did _was_ unforgivable. He is right to hate me. I deserve it.”

Mycroft sighed before stating: “He doesn’t hate you, Sherlock. I’m sure he will change his mind. He went to your grave _every_ Sunday for three years. John needs you, the same way you need him.” Sherlock took great trouble blinking away the tears threatening to spill over his eyelashes. He had already shown enough weakness in the company of his brother, his ‘arch-enemy’, as he used to call him. Sherlock’s efforts failed, a single tear sneaking down his cheekbone as John’s voice whispered ‘ _people don’t have arch-enemies in their real lives ...’_ in the back of his mind.

“He does hate me. You heard him, he regrets my return and wishes me dead ... and for that exact reason he mustn’t know. If I told him the truth about the rooftop he would stay for a few months. But after soothing his conscience he would realise that he can’t forgive my actions and leave. And I would not survive that. He must never know about the snipers. You have to promise me.”

Sherlock suddenly grabbed his brother’s wrist, his eyes full of utter hopelessness. “Promise me!” Mycroft sighed, affection and pity for his little brother constricting his chest. “I feel like you won’t survive this either, brother dear. But I promise. I won’t tell him.”

 

*****

 

When Sherlock inhaled the first lungful of air at 221B (dust, gunpowder, old books, tea) he still felt strangely numb like he had since climbing into the car driven by one of Mycroft’s lackeys. His brain was obviously trying to deafen the myriad of feelings threatening to crash over him by distributing a number of neurotransmitters. Interesting.

He had made quick work of the lock downstairs and he bluntly registered the thought that it was for the best that Mrs Hudson was at her sister’s since he really didn’t feel up to another round of explaining today. She thankfully had taken care of the flat all this time, even dusted the skull. Then it all clicked into place. _Mrs Hudson. Not your housekeeper. Home. Biscuits. Tea. Home. Jam. Toast. Tea. John. John. Alone._

The next thing he knew was that he tried to tear the wallpaper off the wall in John’s utterly empty room. He stormed into the kitchen and started throwing the beakers and test-tubes to the floor. What was the point of conducting experiments if John wasn’t there to complain about them? Then he lit up the fireplace and began throwing old case notes into the blaze. What was the point of The Work if there was no John to call him brilliant? While rummaging through the files in his room he came across his violin.

He closed his eyes, briefly reliving the precious instances where John had been listening to him play. Not complaining about the “ungodly screeching at three in the fucking morning”, really _listening_. Then he crammed it too in the fire with a devastated growl. What was the bloody point?     

 


	2. Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments! Believe it or not, they really accelerated my writing process. :)

 

“Sir, do you want me to do anything else before I leave?” Greg Lestrade startled as Sally Donovan’s voice suddenly broke the silence of his office.

He cleared his throat and checked his wristwatch. His shift had ended several hours ago, but he had stayed, because John had cancelled their pub night at short notice via text. The pile of paperwork on his desk, however, had not diminished noticeably.

‘This is better than the alternative...’ he thought to himself, his hands twitching nervously for a smoke.

After Sherlock’s death, all the old cases they had solved together had been dragged out again and questions had been asked as to how it was possible to miss the fact that his consultant had been a fraud all along. Lestrade had avoided his dismissal from the force and he had even managed not to lose his rank as DI, but the price had been – and was still – high: double shifts, a lot of paperwork and the loss of many colleagues’ respect.

And the golden rule was still not to show any allegiance with Sherlock Holmes. That hurt the most. Not being able to do anything when his men or reporters dragged his friend’s name through the mud – a practice which was still fairly popular if there was a shortage of alternative gossip.

“Sir?” Sally shifted in the door frame, obviously eager to get home.

Greg’s head snapped up. “I’m sorry, must have been lost in thought. Can’t seem to get used to the overtime, I’d kill for a lie-down...”

“Are you alright, sir?”

Greg gave a weak chuckle. “Yeah. I mean, I’m not, actually. But there’s nothing you could do. Go home, have a nice evening.”

Sally looked uncertain. “You sure you don’t need anything?”

Lestrade nodded slowly and resumed looking at what felt like the five-hundredth case file of the day.

“Night, boss...” Sally sighed, turned around and went down the corridor to get her things from her office.         

 

****

 

Ninety minutes later, Greg gave up for the day. His next shift was much closer than he would have liked and he needed to get a good night’s sleep before the drudgery was to start all over again.

Additionally, he didn’t want to miss the last train. Taking the tube instead of a car was one of the many cutbacks in his life due to his recent divorce.

Greg stopped in front of St. James’s Park station, fumbling his Oyster Card out his coat pocket. As he heard a car pull up right behind him, he didn’t give much thought to it – until a man, clad in a posh black suit, appeared to his left and gestured towards the car’s open door.

“DI Lestrade, please get in.”

Lestrade chuckled nervously and he tried to take a step back. Yet, he didn’t get far, because posh-guy seized his left arm. The policeman’s reflexes set in and his right hand went to the gun concealed by his coat.

“Look, what do you think you’re doing here, mate? I am a police officer, I won’t let you kidnap me on a busy street. So unless you tell me what this is all about, I suggest you piss off!” He looked up into the man’s face, awaiting either an explanation or a fist approaching his face. Neither came. Instead, Lestrade’s phone chimed. Then again. And again.

The thought ‘Screw this, if they wanted to take me, I’d be already in their boot with a hood over my face...’ crossed his mind and the hand on his gun went into his coat pocket instead, fishing out his mobile.

 

**Detective Inspector, do get in. MH**

**Now. MH**

**Please. MH**

 

Lestrade rolled his eyes and angrily stuffed his phone back to where it came from. That was just his damn luck. Apparently, the third least person on planet earth he felt the desire to talk to, after his ex-wife and his tenth grade maths teacher, had managed to acquire his new number.

Things had not ended well the last time they had spoken. After Sherlock’s suicide, Greg had crammed all his pent-up anger and frustration down Mycroft’s throat as the man had come to his flat.

How many times had Sherlock complained about his brother’s compulsion to control and monitor _every_ aspect of his life? And then Mycroft, the bloody British government himself, had just remained passive as a madman had destroyed Sherlock’s reputation and had driven him into taking his own life.

Greg just hadn’t been able to endure Mycroft’s flimsy excuses any longer and had decided to shut him for good up by breaking the git’s nose. Gin also might have had a role in this decision. Quite a lot of it.

In any case, he neither wanted to find out if his anger had vanished, nor did he want to apologise. The arsehole had very much deserved it. But Mycroft’s urgent tone had caught his attention nonetheless, and so he gave posh-guy a look of utter annoyance and got into the car.

 

As Greg noticed another person next to him, he looked up, expecting another one of Mycroft’s stylish-but-deadly minions. Instead, his eyes met the cold stare of the man himself.

After a moment of the most uncomfortable silence, Greg burst into hysterical laughter. It took him several minutes to recover.

“You do know that this would have been a lot easier if you just, you know, got out of the car. Instead of texting me. You berk.”

Lestrade dragged his sleeve across his eyes to dry the tears there, still giggling.

This elicited a small smile from Sherlock’s brother. “You’ve got no sense for the dramatic, Gregory. Besides ... being seen with me in public is not very recommendable at the moment, not with the Koreans being so ... Well, I digress. How are things?”

Lestrade snorted. “You know how ‘things are’. They’re fucked. What do you want from me?”

Mycroft’s hands twitched nervously on his knees. After the disaster with John, he really was out of his depth concerning how to break the news of Sherlock’s survival to the inspector. For the lack of an idea for an alternative approach, he decided to be as blunt about it with Lestrade as he had been with John.  

“There is something I need to tell you.” Greg’s grimace of laughter had given way to a challenging stare.

“It’s Sherlock. He’s alive.” Silence. Then Greg sucked in a deep breath, like he was fearing oxygen was running short in the confined space of the car.

“That’s impossible. John saw him jump and Molly performed the autopsy.” More silence stretched between the two men.

“Gregory, it’s true. My brother faked his death and went into hiding to destroy Moriarty’s network. I helped ... and Molly too.”

At Lestrade’s furious expression, he added quickly “Please go easy on her ... She only wanted to help.”

“I can’t -- that can’t -- I mean ... I don’t believe you.”

“You can see him if you want to. If he’s ... up to it.”

 “Why?” Greg asked through gritted teeth.

 “I told you, Gregory, to stop Moriarty.”

Obviously, Lestrade was on the verge of losing the battle of keeping his anger at bay.

“I mean why did he have to give in to Moriarty’s slander and kill himself? The whole country thinks he was a fraud – I... I almost lost my job because it this. The last three years I grieved for one of my closest friends, constantly asking myself if I could have done something, if I could have helped! If I hadn’t arrested him, he wouldn’t have escaped, gone into hiding and ... And you tell me that this feeling of guilt I’ve been struggling with for years was completely unnecessary, because we didn’t really drive Sherlock into suicide??!”

Mycroft let Greg’s rage wash over him and waited for him to calm down.

Greg took a deep breath. After blowing off some steam he felt considerably better. He still didn’t believe Mycroft was telling the truth, it was simply not possible to survive that fall ... but ... the anger that had left his heart had made room for a tiny flicker of hope.

“Mycroft, you said er ... you said that I could see him. Where is he? Back in England? I still don’t believe you. And if I did, I were still angry with every single one of you lying gits, but ...”

Mycroft smiled, even if just a little. “Get out of the car, Gregory.”

Greg snorted incredulously, but opened the door nonetheless. The policeman snorted once again, this time out of amazement in the face of Mycroft’s impossible ability to anticipate everyone’s next move, and stepped out onto Baker Street. He hadn’t even realised the car had been moving, nor could Mycroft have known that he wanted to see Sherlock – yet here they were.

 

*****

 

As Greg and Mycroft reached the door to 221B, Sherlock’s elder brother turned around, his hand twitching around the keys.

“I believe I should warn you... Sherlock is not well. From his three years of forced exile he came home with scars – of physical and of psychological nature. Earlier today he talked to John. It didn’t go well.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “He ... um he rejected Sherlock. He said he can’t forgive him. I don’t know how Sherlock is now ...”

Greg’s eyes widened at the news. “John pushed him away? And you left Sherlock alone?!”

Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose to starve off his developing headache. “He didn’t want me around. I ... I thought it was for the best to –“

His excuses were interrupted as Lestrade grabbed the key from Mycroft’s hand and opened the door himself without much further ado. As they reached the top of the stairs, Greg turned around.

“If Sherlock’s really in there – oh god, I can’t believe I’m saying this, it feels so surreal – could you give us a little room? I promise you I won’t hit him, even though the berk would very much deserve it, but I just want to talk to him alone first. He’s – he’s always been different when you’re around ... I want to know the whole truth.”  

Mycroft nodded in agreement. “Alright, I will stay in the background.”

“Thanks.” Greg mumbled and pushed open the door to the flat.

 

Utter chaos awaited him inside as he looked around: shattered glass and sheets of paper were scattered everywhere, every now and then accompanied by smudged droplets of something that looked worryingly similar to blood.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked into the darkness of the flat, the faint glow of the dying fire being the only source of light. He reached for the light switch, casting the room into brightness. Behind him, he heard Mycroft’s worried voice mumbling “Where is he?”.

Trying not to step into the debris on the floor, they walked across the living room and the kitchen. Greg gasped as he found a bloody handprint on the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. He slowly opened it.

“Mycroft. Come in.” Lestrade urged at the sight that greeted him.

In the farthest corner of the room, lay a person on his side, hugging his knees as if to make himself as small as possible. Lestrade rushed to the huddled figure and found certainty: it was Sherlock. Thinner, paler and more dishevelled than he had ever seen him – but Sherlock nonetheless.

A cocktail of shock, pity, anger and joy made its way into his chest, but concern came to the foreground. With slightly shaking fingers he felt for a pulse, observed his breathing and looked into his face, noticing the dried streaks of tears there.

“What’s wrong with him? Should I call for a doctor?” Mycroft asked, also approaching his brother. Lestrade took a step back. “He’s just asleep. The blood must have been from the shallow cuts on his hands. Look, they stopped bleeding. He must have just ... I don’t know ... crashed. He didn’t even make it to the bed.”

Mycroft went to the couch in the living room, fetched a light blanket and put it around his brother’s shoulders. Mycroft's voice betrayed the raw emotion he was feeling as he corrected Greg. “He hasn’t slept for days ... the reason he isn’t in bed is that it is too close to the door – he can’t feel safe anymore. He must have sat down in the corner to watch the exit and then his body just gave in to exhaustion. We should let him rest while he can. His cuts need to be cleaned and dressed, but this can wait a bit longer.”  

A million questions ran through Greg’s head. What did Mycroft mean with ‘he can’t feel safe anymore’? What happened to him? How did Mycroft know all this?

But all that Greg could whisper was “He’s here. _He is really here_.”                


	3. All Sense Is Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kind words and all the kudos! Writing is so much fun, especially with this great feedback.

 

 

After removing the worst of the broken glass from the living room floor, careful not to make too much noise, the two men sat down onto the sofa. The vibrations of Mycroft’s phone sounded unnaturally loud in the quietness of the flat.

Mycroft had insisted that revealing more than the most basic facts about Sherlock’s death and his time away would betray his trust and that it was Sherlock’s decision how much he wanted to have disclosed. Since this clarification, they had sat in silence.

At the twenty-seventh text (Greg had indeed counted, not much to do apart from that), Mycroft exasperatedly pulled the device from his trouser pocket. Sherlock’s brother sighed as the screen’s colour changed, announcing an incoming phone call.

Greg could only catch a glimpse of the red letters **ULTRA** flashing up, no name, before the mobile went to Mycroft’s ear. “Yes? ---- I understand. ----- No, sir. ------ Right away, sir.” Then he hung up, dragging the palm of his hand over his tired eyes.

“You gotta leave, don’t you?” Greg asked, already knowing the answer to his question.

“I’m afraid, yes. That was the Prime Minister, pretty much the only person in this country I do have to listen to. Quite the nuisance ...”

Mycroft’s annoyed tone caused Greg to smirk a little, the Holmes brothers were so fascinatingly alike regarding certain aspects. Nonetheless, for the absence of a death wish, Greg had no intention to point this out to either of them.   

“Should I leave one of my men with you?” Mycroft asked while standing up.

Greg shook his head. “No ... no, it’s alright. I wanted to talk to him alone anyway.”

Mycroft went to the door, then he turned around. “Just ... go easy on him. He’s ... he’s not himself.” Then he was gone, leaving Greg puzzled behind.

 

*****

 

Greg had just admitted defeat on the eighth try of changing the background of his mobile phone to pass the time as he heard a sound from Sherlock’s room. It was something between a whimper and a choked breath and so pitiful that he leapt to his feet and hastened to the half-open door.

Inside, he realised that Sherlock must have been having a nightmare, because he was obviously still asleep, mumbling something in a foreign language. He was drenched in sweat and the blanket had fallen from his uneasy frame. Concerned, the inspector went to his long lost friend’s side and kneeled down in front of him. “Hey, mate. Everything’s alright. Wake up. Come on.” As soon as Lestrade’s hand touched Sherlock’s shoulder, the man’s eyes flew open. Seeing his panicked gaze, Greg realised that this might not have been the smartest course of action.

 

*****

 

_Danger. Secure weapon. Neutralise threat. Localise exit. Escape._

 

 

*****

 

The next thing Greg knew was that he lay on his back, his jaw hurting tremendously. He shook his head to rid himself of the dizziness in his brain and scrambled to his feet. Despite the dim light, he could see Sherlock in front of him. He stood with his back to the wall, pointing a handgun at the inspector. Only his eyes betrayed his confusion, his hands were perfectly steady. Greg did not dare moving his hand to his holster, not that it would have made a difference, from the lack of weight at his side he could say for certain that Sherlock had managed to get his service gun.

Sherlock’s breath was coming in frantic gasps and his voice was hoarse as he shouted at Greg in a language the policeman didn’t understand (Russian? Serbian?).

Slowly, Greg raised his hands in front of him in a conciliating gesture. His voice sounded much calmer than he felt: “Sherlock, it’s me, Greg. You’re safe, everything’s alright. Please, put the gun down.”

Sherlock’s hands tightened around the gun’s handle, the congealed blood on his palms had merged with sweat, making them slippery. “English? That can’t be ... Where am I? What do you want from me?”

“You’re in London, in 221B! You’re home. Please calm down, mate, you’re scaring me.” Greg held his breath.

“No no no ... that’s wrong. Why would ...? I was just ...” _Doesn’t matter! Escape!_ A shiver ran through Sherlock’s frame. _“_ How do I get out of here?”

Greg took two steps to the left so that he no longer stood between Sherlock and the door. “There’s the exit, see? I’m not holding you against your will.“

Sherlock’s eyes darted back and forth between Lestrade and the door. After a few seconds, however, they focused on Greg once more. “You won’t let me leave. They never do. I ... I er ...” Greg noticed the second Sherlock’s resolve faltered, recognition slowly returning to his eyes.

“Greg?” It broke Lestrade’s heart. It wasn’t his friend’s weak and miserable voice, it was the use of his real first name. Sherlock never did this. This simple word symbolised that the man before him had hit rock bottom, stripped of all arrogance, helpless and desperate.

Lestrade managed a half-smile. “Yes, it’s me. You’re safe.”

Sherlock swallowed with great effort, panic was obviously still constricting his throat. “Are you real?”

Greg’s laugh sounded more like a cough. “I hope so, mate. Please put the gun down so we can talk. You’re safe.”

The gun clattered to the floor and Sherlock’s legs gave out under him, the wall behind him broke his fall and let him slide slowly to the floor. A trembling hand went to his side, as Sherlock’s face contorted in pain. Greg approached the man carefully, kicking the gun as far away as possible.

“Did I hurt you?” Sherlock asked, his bloodshot eyes wandering to the swelling on Greg’s jaw.     

“No, I’m fine. God, you gave me quite the fright, though. Are you ok?”

Sherlock tried to scoff, but the sound transformed into a pitiful gasp as he had to hold his ribs once again.

Greg sucked in a sharp breath. “Shit, what’s the matter? Should I get someone?”

“No, I’m ... I’m ok.”   

Greg’s laugh sounded hollow. “You’re obviously not! What the hell happened? Was that some kind of ... flashback?”

“I ... I didn’t realise where I was. Happens now and then. That’s why I mostly gave up sleeping.” At the last sentence, Greg rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment on it.

“There are cuts on your hands. We should clean them”, he stated matter-of-factly. “Can you come with me to the couch in the living room?”                    

Sherlock nodded weakly, not knowing how to manage the short distance, since all energy appeared to have been drained from him. Nonetheless, Greg manoeuvred his friend to the sofa within a few minutes.

As Lestrade started to clean and dress the wounds on Sherlock’s hands, silence stretched between the two men.

Then Sherlock cleared his throat. “Why are you here?”

Glad to have something to do with his hands, Greg answered quietly. “Mycroft intercepted me on my way home. He told me that you were alive and then he brought me here. God, you are really here...”

As Sherlock looked up, his facial expression betrayed confusion, albeit and a tiny flicker of hope. “My brother didn’t tell you anything, did he? About why I faked my death?” Insecurity radiated from Sherlock’s posture and voice.

Greg looked up from his hands that were still busy with the many cuts on Sherlock’s slender fingers. “No, he didn’t. He just told me that you were alive and that you would tell me what you thought I should know.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “He did warn me, though. He said that you returned feeling a bit ... under the weather.”

If his sides hadn’t been hurting so much with the stabbing pain of cracked ribs, Sherlock would have laughed at this preposterous understatement. Instead, he winced and drew his knees closer to his torso.

“What happened to you?” Greg asked quietly.

Sherlock took a breath as deep as his ribs would allow. “I – I can’t... I – too much ...“ His stuttered rambling was interrupted as Greg put a faintly trembling hand on his friend’s bony knee. “It’s ok. You don’t – you don’t have to tell me now – or ever. If you don’t want to.”

“Why are you here?” Sherlock’s tone drove another spike into Greg’s heart. He was serious about this question. He honestly didn’t understand why the inspector was still with him.

The graveness of Sherlock’s question warranted a heartfelt and earnest response. No room for sarcasm or jokes. Only for truth. “Because you’re my friend. I care about you. Nothing can change that.”

Sherlock was still insecure. “You’re not angry?”

Greg smiled at the trembling mess in front of him. “You’ve got no idea! I’m so bloody angry with you and it’s gonna show quite a lot. I’m going to lure you to crime scenes, telling you they’re tremendously interesting, even though they’re dull as dishwater. Hell, I might even tell your brother about it and we’ll have a good laugh at the expense of the great Consulting Detective.”

Sherlock broke down. His head dropped to his knees and his now bandaged hands begun clutching his head and pulling helplessly at his mop of dark curls. Broken sobs made his whole body convulse.

“Sherlock, what’s the matter? Did I say something? It’s gonna be alright.” Greg tried to hug his friend as careful as possible, mindful of the injuries, the origin of which was still mysterious to the police officer.

Sherlock’s voice was muffled by Greg’s suit, tears slowly dripping onto the dark material. “I’m sorry... It’s just – I can’t – and – and – I don’t know what ... t-to do. All i-is lost...”

“You don’t have to apologise. It’s alright. Everything’s going to be great again. Just give him time.” Sherlock’s stammering had made more sense to Greg than he had liked. In a way, Greg’s forgiveness had broken Sherlock. He had offered unconditional affection, without knowing the truth – exactly what John had refused to give his former best friend. For Sherlock, all sense was lost. Greg gritted his teeth and held back tears. He was at a loss with how to mend his friend’s broken heart. If John  didn’t come round there was no hope.    


	4. Giving In to Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long ... The new semester started and I'm pretty much drowning in assignments.

 

 

Greg stayed with Sherlock the whole night and called in sick the next morning, because he hadn't heard from Mycroft and didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone. As sunlight began to seep through the half-closed curtains of 221B, Greg got up from the couch. Sherlock had not moved in hours, his knees were still drawn up to his chest. His eyes were closed, even though his breathing pattern revealed that he wasn’t sleeping.

Greg cleared his throat. “I’m gonna make some tea. And you should eat something. I guess there’s nothing here … But I won’t leave you alone. Maybe we could - ”

“Fridge”, Sherlock muttered and opened his eyes.

Greg raised his eyebrows disbelievingly, but went to the proposed device. As he opened it, he couldn’t help but chuckle. The refrigerator was filled to the brim with food, and a post-it note was still attached to a fresh carton of milk. Apparently, a certain ‘Anthea’, undoubtedly one of Mycroft’s minions, was responsible for this act of magic.

*****

A few minutes later, Greg returned to the living room and placed two slices of toast with jam for Sherlock and scrambled egg for himself and two cups of tea on the table in front of the sofa.

Remembering John’s ‘I’m secretly over-sugaring his tea so that the git won’t collapse during a case’ rant, Greg had put five sugars into Sherlock’s drink. He didn’t seem to mind, since he drank the tea greedily. The toast, however, was ignored.

Greg frowned as Sherlock’s trembling hand made the cup clatter against the saucer. After finishing his meal, he looked up to Sherlock.

“Sherlock, I told you yesterday and I’ll tell you again: you don’t have to lose a word about what happened. It won’t make any difference between us if you choose not to say anything. I just … maybe you should tell me. Please don’t get me wrong, I’m not demanding anything. I just want you to feel better … and maybe it helps if you get it off your chest.”

Greg took a deep breath, praying that Sherlock wouldn’t feel coerced by his statement.

Sherlock’s gaze wandered to the window, his eyes hollow and sad. “It won’t make me feel better. But you’re right, it doesn’t make any difference. There’s no reason not to tell you…”

He shifted and took a deep breath.  “Alright. Retrospectively, it was all my fault. I was too fascinated by Moriarty, too focused on his _game_. I didn’t stop him in time and put so many lives in danger because I wanted to be clever … After ruining my reputation and corrupting everyone’s faith in my abilities, the last step, his pièce de résistance, was supposed to be my public suicide. We met on the roof of St Bart’s and I … I still thought I was in control.” Sherlock laughed sombrely. “I was so utterly wrong. Moriarty told me that my only friends would die if I didn’t jump. He had snipers trained at John, Mrs Hudson and – and you.”    

Greg winced as if the news had hit him with bodily force. He suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. His chest was so constricted that he almost felt faint. “You – you died for us?” he finally choked out. He still wasn’t able to wrap his mind around this.

Sherlock closed his eyes and his jaw began to tremble. When he spoke again after a few moments, his voice lacked all strength, all hope. “If only … That would have been for the better. I should have died that day – or maybe I should have offed myself afterwards in private.”

At that, Greg shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. However, he didn’t say anything and let Sherlock continue.

“Instead of doing the right thing, the logical thing, I came back … I – I thought John could forgive me, I was so selfish. Before I returned and devastated him once more, he was content; his memory of me was good. Have you read the last entry on his blog? ‘He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.’”

Sherlock choked out a sad laugh. “That proved to be untrue. He would have kept believing in me, if I had had the strength to stay away. Now, he just hates me.” Silent tears gathered in Sherlock’s eyes and slowly ran across his cheeks, joining the dried stream there from the night before.

It took all the self-restraint Greg owned not to touch Sherlock in some way, to show him that he cared about him – that he didn’t have to go through this on his own. But he recalled Sherlock’s jumpiness and panic the night before and chose not to reach out and put a hand on his friend’s quivering shoulder.

“John doesn’t hate you, Sherlock. He could never hate you. You were the most important person in his entire universe and that part of him was ripped out the day you died. He grieved for months, didn’t speak to anyone, didn’t leave the flat. He just stared at your empty chair for hours. It went so far that we had to confiscate his gun. We didn’t want to leave him alone anymore. After a year it slowly became better. As he got the news that you are alive, it must have re-opened all the wounds again. He just needs time. He’ll come round and when he can grasp what you did for us –“

“He doesn’t know.” At the interruption, Greg looked at Sherlock quizzically. “What doesn’t he know, Sherlock? What do you mean?”

 Sherlock’s voice was small and he sounded unbelievably young as he answered: “He doesn’t know I jumped for him.”

Greg forced himself to remain calm. “Why?”                    

“Because he would stay – even if he didn’t want to. That’s why he can never know. He would think that he has to repay a debt … that he owes me something.” 

Greg’s suppressed anger showed a bit in his voice as he replied. “But we do owe our lives to you. We’re only alive because of you.”

“And I am only alive because of him. There is no life without him. Only darkness.” Sherlock whispered.  

 

*****

 

**Four months later.**

 

Sherlock was surrounded by darkness. He could not see anything. He could not hear anything.

As he tried to reach up to his face, he had to realise that he was restrained in a sitting position, hands above his head. His whole body ached. Panic rose in his chest, his frantic breathing resounded unnaturally amplified in what seemed to be a large room with stone walls.

Suddenly, brutal hands closed around his throat and the room was illuminated by spotlights. He battled for air as someone spoke. His panicked brain could make out Serbian. “ _I think this one’s had enough rest now. Time to continue. Who are you? Answer me!”_

Sherlock’s eyes slowly adjusted to the sudden brightness in the room. Pain exploded across his side as a metal pipe connected with it, surely breaking several ribs on impact.

Before he could catch his breath, his torturer loosened his restraints and dragged him to one of the room’s corners, where a barrel full of cold water awaited him. “ _What do you –“,_ Sherlock didn’t get any further, because his head was brutally dunked underwater.

He tried to break free, primal instincts taking over. Breathing wasn’t boring anymore. It was all he wanted at the moment.

Finally, he was yanked back and he fell coughing to the floor, greedily sucking air into his burning, cramping lungs. His torturers didn’t even let Sherlock catch his breath.

He was dragged to another corner which was equipped with a metal table. Brutal hands forced his left hand flat on the cold surface. Two men held him down and a third stood in front of him and bent down threateningly, his face only inches from Sherlock’s.

“ _How fond are you of your fingers? Tell us what we want to know and you can get out of here with all ten of them.”_ A tremendous fear gripped Sherlock’s heart.

Still wheezing frantically, he tried to get out enough Serbian words to stop whatever the men were planning. “ _No… d-don’t, please! I … I don’t k-know anything!”_  Sherlock’s panicked gaze went from the torturer’s face to the far corner of the room.

Like so many times before, John stood there, dressed in his favourite jumper, leaning calmly against the wall. Sherlock knew this hallucination very well. His mind knew who to conjure up once it had nearly reached its breaking point.

John’s voice was strong and restrained as he spoke. “Don’t tell them, Sherlock.” In his mind, Sherlock screamed at him: “But the violin, John! If they destroy my fingers, I won’t ever be able to play for you again if you dream of Afghanistan. They can’t take my fingers, John! Help me!”

John stayed as calm as ever and it made Sherlock furious – this was good, because anger meant strength and he needed as much of that as possible for what was about to come.

“Don’t tell them, Sherlock. Breathe. You can do it. Keep me safe.” Sherlock repeated this mantra over and over again.

His version of John was right, he could not tell them anything without endangering the real John. “Keep him safe. Keep him safe. Keep him safe.” Sherlock muttered ceaselessly until a large hammer came down on his pointer finger.

*****

Sherlock woke up screaming. Only after several seconds, he realised what was going on. He lay in his bed, which he had moved to the corner farthest from the door, tangled in a thin sheet.

Nightmare. Another one. He was drenched in sweat and shook violently. Sherlock tried to level his breathing and got to his unsteady feet. Silent tears ran down his face. He was beyond anger. Beyond frustration. Beyond despair. There was only sadness. Calm, endless, hopeless sadness.

He went into the bathroom and grabbed the wooden box waiting for him on the sink. He couldn’t stand it any longer. This needed to end.

He prepared the hit hastily, not paying attention to the dose. Sherlock craved oblivion and he didn’t want to think about if he sought peace for the moment or forever.

Only seconds after removing the needle, his heart-rate went through the roof, and instead of the anticipated calmness, he only felt his chest constrict. ‘Ah, it looks like my subconscious has made a choice without my knowledge’, was the last thought swirling through Sherlock’s sluggish brain before unconsciousness claimed him.      

 


	5. “Before us great Death stands, our fate held close within his quiet hands...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so immensely sorry that it took so long. Finals are at the gates and the studying day and night is driving me nuts ... So finally: Enjoy the new chapter! :)

 

“Mycroft, dear! It’s so nice to see you.” Mrs Hudson’s face lit up as the late visitor turned out to be Sherlock’s brother.

“I’m so sorry to bother you at this time of night, I couldn’t come earlier due to a conference.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s not so late, do come in!” A faint smile tugged at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth at the landlady’s gushing hospitality. He entered and turned around, inevitably noticing the expression of concern that was flickering across the old woman’s face.

“How is my brother, Martha?”

Martha Hudson sighed. She did not know how often she had been asked this question. The answer was always the same. “He’s … he’s not doing well.”

Silence stretched between the two and Mrs Hudson looked like she was contemplating if she should continue. Mycroft put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Not able to hold it in any longer, she went on.

“I don’t know the details, he won’t let me near. I … I heard him scream in his sleep about twenty minutes ago – like so often – but I thought it was for the best not to go upstairs. The last time I tried to check on him, he pounced on me, shouted at me in some Slavic language and tried to close his hands around my throat. In that moment it was a blessing that he is so thin and hasn’t been eating. His legs gave out under him before he could do me any harm.” She started sobbing, both hands pressed in front of her mouth.

“I’m so sorry, I … I shouldn’t have let you alone with him.” Mrs Hudson breathed deeply to calm herself. “It’s not your fault, dear. It will get better. Somehow …”

“Martha, promise me that you’ll call me if you need something. Anything.” She nodded and smiled in a rather sad fashion as Mycroft began to climb the stairs.

After reaching the second floor, Mycroft pushed open the door to the flat. The sight that greeted him shocked him, even though he had seen the utter chaos in the flat several times before. A salmagundi of books, cigarette stubs, plates with half-eaten toast and half-filled mugs of tea occupied almost every surface in the living room, except for the floor, which was covered in dirty t-shirts and tracksuit bottoms.

As Mycroft’s gaze travelled through the room, it lingered on an empty syringe on the coffee table. He closed his eyes. Of course, Sherlock would try to cope with the only means he knew. This was expected. It had always been like this when demons visited.

Disgusted by his own indifference and resignation, he straightened his back. “Sherlock? I thought you would like another round of blindfold chess. I could use a victory today. Sherlock? Where are you?” He checked the kitchen and the bedroom. Since there was still no sign of his brother, Mycroft went to the bathroom door and pushed it open.

“Oh God!” Mycroft exclaimed and dropped to his knees next to his brother's motionless body. Sherlock’s eyes were half-open, his pupils so small, they almost vanished in the grey-blueish-green ocean of the iris.

With trembling hands, Mycroft felt for a pulse on Sherlock’s pale throat, brief relief flooding his heart as a weak and fast heartbeat quivered beneath his fingertips. He pulled out his phone and managed to enter his panic code without letting the device slip through his sweaty fingers.

It took only a second until a young man answered. “How can I be of service, Sir?”

“I need an ambulance now – to 221B Baker Street. My brother ODed.”

“Right away, Sir! I’ll connect you with someone who can tell you what to do until the paramedics arrive.”    

The line clicked and another man answered. “Dr Philips speaking, Sir. What is your brother’s status and what did he take?”

“Ehm, heroin, I believe. He’s unconscious.”

“Is he breathing?”

Mycroft put the phone on speaker, placed it on the floor and leaned closer to Sherlock to observe the movements of his chest. There weren’t any.

“No, no, he’s not. Oh God…” Mycroft felt like he couldn’t breathe himself. This was not happening. He could not lose his brother. Not now. Not ever. 

“Sir, you need to remain calm. His diaphragm is paralysed. Is there still a pulse?”

Mycroft checked again, his own blood turning to ice as the weak heartbeat was no longer to be found.

“No, no, no! I can’t feel it anymore!”

“Do you know how to perform CPR?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Do it now.”  

Mycroft acted immediately, his mind running solely on instinct, he no longer felt connected to his body. Tears blinded him and he was drenched in sweat by the twentieth time he breathed life into his younger brother's lungs and four military medics stormed into the flat. The woman in front dropped to her knees, gently pushed Mycroft out of the way and began compressing Sherlock’s chest.

Mycroft took a few steps back, still feeling numb and disconnected. He barely registered that Mrs Hudson was silently crying at his side ( _When did she get here?_ ), his entire being was focussed on his brother’s fight with death. Just as one of the doctors was about to intubate the patient, Sherlock started convulsing, a strangled sound making its way up his throat.

Mycroft could only watch as his baby brother was turned onto his side so that he would not choke on his own vomit. He decided there and then that he had never felt more helpless in his entire life, finding a fevered and hallucinating Sherlock in a torture chamber in Serbia included.

    

*****

 

Nightshift after nightshift ruins one’s ability to find deep sleep. Hence, when Greg Lestrade’s mobile began to ring, it took him only three seconds to wake up and answer it.

“Lestrade.”

“Gregory, this is Mycroft.”

“Hey. Mycroft, do you have any idea what time it is? What do you want?”

“I’m sorry I woke you. It’s just … I’m … never mind, I’ll call again tomorrow.”

“Wait!” An unpleasant feeling of concern settled in Greg’s chest. Apologising was not Mycroft’s style. And there was something wrong with his voice, too. “What is it, Mycroft? I can hear that something’s not right.”

“It’s … it’s Sherlock.”

“What of him?” Lestrade had a hard time keeping the impatience in his voice at bay.

“He overdosed on heroin tonight. I found him.”

All fatigue suddenly left Lestrade’s brain as the blood in his veins turned to ice. “Oh my God, how is he? Will he be ok?”

“He is in hospital. It didn’t look good, they had to revive him twice, once in the flat and once on the road. He almost choked on his own vomit. ... I ... Whenever I close my eyes, I see him lying on the bathroom floor, pale, motionless, his eyes staring vacantly upwards. I …” Silence stretched between the two men. “Look, Gregory, I… I’m sorry, I don’t want to burden you with it. I just thought you should be informed, since I know that Sherlock has always considered you a close friend.”

“God, Mycroft, this is horrible! Of course he’s my friend, you both are! In which hospital is he? I’ll come right away.”

“There’s no need, he’ll be kept sedated for at least 48 hours. I just –“ Mycroft’s voice broke and Greg thought not for the first time that the Holmes brothers could pretend they hated each other as much as they wanted, the bond between them was stronger than anything he could imagine. “What is it, Mycroft? There’s something else, isn’t there?” Greg asked gently.     

After a few seconds of palpable tension, Mycroft continued. “I ... Gregory, I think he really was trying to kill himself. Sherlock is an excellent chemist, he doesn’t make mistakes. I don’t know what to do. I can’t get him to take a case or conduct an experiment. I think his love for life died the day John left it.”

“Oh God, I feared something like this could happen. John still can’t see a way to forgive Sherlock. I see him now and then at the pub. Less frequently since Sherlock came back, because he knows I’m in contact with you two. If I only as much as mention Sherlock, he just stands up and leaves the room. He’s still so angry ... I can’t get him to listen to me.”

“Then there’s no hope. Sherlock will try again sooner or later. And if he succeeds, John will have to cope with throwing away the person that was ready to go to the end of the earth for him.” Mycroft’s voice shook with anger.  

“Mycroft, we can’t give up. Not yet. I’ll try and talk to John again. Maybe he’ll listen if it’s about Sherlock’s life.”  

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Mycroft breathed in relief.

“I know you do. Give Sherlock a hug from me when he’s awake, ok? I’ll come visit him as soon as possible.” Greg’s request was met with a strangled giggle.

“I’m not sure if ‘hugging’ from me will be welcome...”

Greg smiled, even if just a little. “I know, childish feud and all, but try at least?”

“Will do. Thank you again. Goodbye.”

“Don’t mention it. Goodbye, Mycroft.”

 

*****

 

“You’re the bloke from the papers, ain’t you? You’re that detective’s ‘partner’, the one with the funny hat!”

John closed his eyes to push down the urge of breaking the spotty teenager’s nose that determinedly made its way up his windpipe. He wanted to punch _something_ at the way the lad had said ‘partner’.

That the media frenzy caused by Sherlock’s resurrection had resulted in all the ‘Hatman and Robin’ photos being dragged out again was obviously not enough: the whole world was still assuming that they had been – and were still – shagging even though he hadn’t even seen Sherlock since his return.

He was a grown man, for god’s sake! No need to lose the last scrap of dignity he owned by having a nervous breakdown at a bloody supermarket. After regaining his composure, he threw ten pounds at the boy and stormed out.

Once he was back at his quiet flat, John sank down onto the sofa, feeling strangely disconnected from his body. That was just his luck, being recognised. A _gain._

For what felt like the hundredth time in the last months, he thought about moving to Scotland. The Isle of Man. Bloody New Zealand! Somewhere he could live in peace, where he would not be reminded constantly of his former flatmate’s betrayal. But then he felt all too familiar trepidation wrenching at his guts.

Leaving London would be synonymous with giving up hope. He would have to admit that there was no way, none at all, to mend his friendship with Sherlock. Until now he still hoped that the anger towards him would decrease, that he would wake up and feel the urge to speak with Sherlock, to listen to his side of things. ‘ _His side? He doesn’t care about you, not even a little. That’s his side. Accept it, he just wants you to continue being his lapdog. Much more convenient. And he will leave again if he feels like it, because he doesn’t give a fuck about you.’_ John shook his head aggressively in order to silence to voice nagging at the back of his mind. It worked only a little.           

 

 


	6. Seeking Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait - exams, exams, exams ... I hope you enjoy the new chapter :). And thank you so much for every single comment and all the kudos!

 

“Sherlock, this is Dr Marrison. She’s here to gather information on your habits regarding illegal substances. Since your ribs were broken – again – during CPR, we need to assess which kind of pain medication is adequate. Don’t want to worsen your little … problem, do we?”

Sitting in the hospital bed, Sherlock looked up from the tablet he had been using to read the latest news of murder and mayhem (none had sparked any interest, everything was dull in Sherlock’s eyes. They all lacked … something) and scrutinised the woman standing next to his brother with his best arrogant and intimidating stare.

The woman was small, she appeared even more so next to Mycroft, who was almost as tall as Sherlock. She shuffled nervously with her feet and the effort it took her not to flinch when meeting Sherlock’s gaze was enough.

Finding out the meaning of this ( _Really, Mycroft? That one is a bit obvious, isn’t it?_ ) was a matter of seconds. Then he turned towards his brother.

“I need that psychiatrist even less than the one you’ve brought before. I’m fine.”

Mycroft’s outrage seemed a bit too intense to be real as he tried to salvage the situation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’ve told you: Dr Marrison is an anaesthetist and she’s here to oversee your pain management. She’s no –”

“Oh yes, she is! You didn’t exactly exert yourself making this lie up, did you? She is no anaesthetist. Just look at her hands! Those pretty hands haven’t seen a latex glove in a very long time. They are used to take notes – with a quite cheap blue pen, I deduce – and to prescribe meds and pat the shoulders of patients. Having to listen to the woes of person after person was a little too much over time and she tried to dull her own pain. She’s really not the right person to interrogate me about my drug use, not with a little vodka-cranberry-problem of her own.”    

Without effort, Mycroft could pinpoint the exact moment he lost the argument. Dr Marrison left no room for negotiation when her lower lip began to tremble and she fled the scene without another word. As Sherlock’s triumphant glare fell upon Mycroft, he decided that he had tried (and failed) long enough with playing games. Maybe honesty would do the trick. He sighed and manoeuvred himself slowly onto the bed, next to his brother. Sherlock tensed considerably as Mycroft’s thigh faintly touched his scrawny arm.  

“Sherlock, you need to talk about it.” Mycroft’s voice was almost a whisper.

Sherlock refused to meet his brother’s eyes as he answered. “There is nothing to talk about. It was an accident. It won’t happen again.”  

Mycroft’s gaze travelled from Sherlock’s sunken eyes to his much too skinny body. “If it happens again, you won’t come back.” There was a certainty in his tone that caused Sherlock to flinch. Silence stretched between the two men, the only sound in the room being the regular beeps from Sherlock’s heart monitor.

“Do you still see John?” Mycroft’s sudden change of topic caused Sherlock to look up at last. They were both very well aware that his question didn’t refer to the John of flesh and blood. Mycroft shuddered as he recalled finding his brother bloody and beaten in a dungeon, talking to a John only he could see and hear.

“I know he is not real. It’s not a hallucination if I know he –” Sherlock’s whispered attempt at an explanation was interrupted by his brother. “Tell him. Tell him, write it down, it doesn’t matter. You need to get it off your chest. If you can’t tell John in reality, talk to your version. Maybe you’ll find some peace – some way to begin anew.” Sherlock snorted derisively at the proposal and turned around, declaring the conversation terminated.

Mycroft stood up and headed towards the door. “Your loss would break my heart, little brother.” He stated before disappearing down the hallway.  

 

*****

 

Back again at 221B. Dull. Sherlock let his coat fall to a heap on the floor and he brushed his shabby hair out of his eyes. He lit his eighth cigarette this day with shaking fingers (Why was it only the eighth? Oh, right, the nurses had confiscated his stash at the hospital and he had just bought a new package two hours ago) and crumbled to the floor.

There he sat among used plates, half empty mugs of tea and the pile of plastic waste the paramedics had left behind. The flat was a total mess, not even Mrs Hudson, who had toughed out severed heads in the fridge and bowls of blood in the microwave, entered it nowadays.

Sherlock rubbed absently at the pronounced bruising on his chest, where the paramedics (and Mycroft) had performed CPR. He closed his eyes, imagining John’s smile or look of admiration he had used to put on whenever Sherlock had deduced something. Silent tears began to run down his cheeks as utter desperation threatened to consume him.

‘Peace’, Mycroft had said. ‘Begin anew’ he had said. He had no idea. The past months had made one thing very clear to Sherlock: There was no life without John. None worth living anyway. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to end it. Something made him cling to life like a rabid dog to its prey. It had taken him a pretty long time to realise what it was. Mycroft was right on one thing: There were things he needed to say, needed to get off his chest. But it was simply not possible to say them, not to John.

Slowly, he scrambled to his unsteady feet and took a deep breath. He knew what needed to be done. Sherlock got to his desk, found a stack of paper and began to write. Hopefully, he would find peace after putting everything down – just not the kind Mycroft hoped he’d find.

 

*****

 

“Hey mate, what’s up?” As soon as John saw the Detective Inspector’s face, he knew that something was not right.

“What happened, trouble with the ex-wife again?”

Greg took in the sight of his friend. He looked ... well. This made him angry. Why was this making him angry? Quite the friend he was... He shook his head and simply snapped “You don’t want to know. Your words.”

‘Ah, Sherlock’, John thought. This was definitely not going to be the relaxed night out at the pub he had planned on having.

“Yes, I don’t want to know. He betrayed me, betrayed you too by the way, even though you keep forgetting it.”

Greg let out a pained sigh. Since Mycroft had told him the reason for Sherlock’s fake suicide, it had devastated him that John didn’t know about his former flatmate’s heroic deed. He could of course understand Sherlock’s point, John would feel obliged to stay with Sherlock, whether the doctor wanted to or not. But he couldn’t get rid of the feeling that guilt would crush John if he learned about it.

The friends’ eyes met and Lestrade asked gravely: ”Not even if it’s about his life?” John sucked in a breath, his voice still slightly hostile as he answered. “What do you mean, his life?”

“I thought you didn’t want to know?”

“If you think I ought to know, you should tell me.”

“And how the hell should I know if you should know.”

“You said it’s about his life. Bloody tell me already.” Greg felt a flicker of hope in his chest. John was Sherlock’s cure. With John in his life, there would be a chance to deal with this. He steeled himself again, before announcing with a tremor in his voice “He’s back on drugs, heroin to be exact.”

John’s face was a mask of stoic blankness. “He overdosed three days ago. Mycroft found him – and had to reanimate him.” Something in John’s demeanour broke and he just stared at the table between them for a full minute, shoulders hunched, until he finally asked: “Why?”

Greg almost choked on his Guinness. “What do you mean why??”

“Why as in ‘What’s the point?’”

Greg kept staring incredulously at John. “He’s trying to bloody kill himself, that’s the point.”

“But why?”

Greg just shook his head. The git really needed to hear it. “You pushed him away. That’s why.”

John felt anger rise in his throat. “That’s hardly my fault! Sherlock-I’m-too-bloody-brilliant-to-tell-stupid-John-about-my-plans-Holmes lied to me. He killed himself in front of my eyes and let me grieve for three bloody years, _three years_ , Greg. And then he just thought he could waltz back into my life like nothing happened. You should have seen him, he didn’t even care.”

Now it was Greg’s turn to let anger get the better of him. “You honestly think he doesn’t care?! You were the only thing in his life he _did_ care about! Now he doesn’t give a fuck about anything anymore! He’s broken John, he has been ever since he returned and Mycroft and I, we were there and tried to pick up the pieces. He won’t bloody listen to us. But he will listen to you.”

During Lestrade’s outbreak, John’s face had crumbled even more and he whispered “What makes you think that?”

“Because you’re the only thing that gives his life purpose. Nothing makes sense anymore without you. He gave up working cases and doing his experiments, destroyed his violin and...”

“He destroyed his violin?” John gasped, completely taken aback. “Yes, threw it in the fireplace that is... Said there was no point in playing without you listening... and complaining.” A fragile smile tugged at John’s mouth despite himself. He put a palm to his forehead in an attempt at soothing his most vicious headache. He groaned and replied finally: “Alright, alright. I’m going to talk to him. But I won’t promise anything. If I can’t stand him I _will_ leave. I just want to talk him out of the drugs, it doesn’t change my attitude towards what he’s done to me.”

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. He could work with that. He just needed to get the two idiots into the same room and get them to bloody talk. “Thanks John. This means a lot. Can you come to Baker Street tomorrow?”

“I’ll come by in the morning around 11 am. Bye, Greg.”

After John had disappeared, Lestrade followed him through the pub’s door and joined the rather big crowd of people having a smoke in front of the weathered ‘weekly offers’ sign. ‘Bloody non-smoker policy’ he thought, as he pulled his coat-collar up against the typical Londonian drizzle.

Somehow he had to convince Sherlock to tell John the truth or this was going to go south... John would turn on his heels as soon as Sherlock swore off drugs. And then the whole mess would start all over again. He looked at his wristwatch and, finding that it wasn’t that late, turned towards the next tube station to visit Sherlock and convince him to tell John the real reason for his fake suicide.

 

*****

 

Sherlock shivered as he dashed around the corner where Baker Street ended in Regent’s Park. His fingers trembled as he pulled his Belstaff tighter around his gaunt frame. If it were the first sparks of withdrawal, the cold or the skipping of the last three (or was it four?) meals, he was not sure. And frankly, he didn’t care.

He wouldn’t have these problems anymore in a few hours. He was absolutely certain that he would succeed this time. He had written everything down. Absolutely everything that he so desperately wanted to tell John, but couldn’t.

As much as it pained him to admit it, Mycroft had been right. Talking about it (even if just through a letter no one was ever going to read) had given him the opportunity to bring order to his thoughts. Sherlock knew what needed to be done to find peace. He would burn the letter later, after he got home with his last hit. He had written a second note, the one they were going to find with his body. It confirmed everything John thought of him now, sociopath and all. It would make it easier for John not to feel guilty. And that was paramount in this endeavour.

John _had to_ be able to go on with his life, and a happy one at that, even if it meant that he hated Sherlock to the end of his days. He had to remember to send a text to Lestrade before doing it, asking him to come over. He didn’t want poor Mrs Hudson to find him dead in his ... well drug overdoses weren’t likely to kill neatly.

Just as he was about to approach his usual dealer, someone bumped into Sherlock and he felt a faint stab at the side of his neck. Then everything went dark.


	7. Scores To Be Settled

 

 

Lestrade flashed a tense smile at Mrs Hudson as she let him into 221B. “What can I do for you, Detective Inspector?”

“I’m here to talk to Sherlock. How is he today?” Greg asked.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock went out about two hours ago. I’m starting to get a little bit worried. He’s barely left the flat since he’s back. And he’s still not feeling well after … what happened the last time Mycroft came round.” Lestrade sensed that Mrs Hudson cared deeply for what Sherlock was going through behind her cheery façade.

“Don’t worry. He might just … take an evening walk.” Greg almost laughed at his ridiculous attempt at calming Mrs Hudson down. He was starting to feel uneasy about Sherlock’s disappearance himself, but he had to accept that the man was neither a child nor a prisoner. Sherlock had the right to leave whenever he wanted.

He turned again towards Mrs Hudson. “Would you mind giving me a ring when he comes back? I got John to talk to him tomorrow and I want to make sure he’s … up for it.”

At that, the elderly lady smiled broadly. All the resentments she had harboured towards John for not being there for Sherlock took a back seat. She knew just too well that Sherlock had hit rock bottom and that he did not want to live without his beloved John.

At Lestrade’s statement, she felt new hope surge up inside her troubled heart. “Oh, that’s wonderful news! John will talk him round. Sure, I’ll call you as soon as Sherlock comes home.”

The DI smiled back, hoping that this really meant a change for the better for Sherlock.

“Great, thanks! And don’t worry, he’s fine.”

Greg hoped that she hadn’t sensed that he wanted to reassure himself as much as her with his statement as he made for Baker Street tube station with a quickened pace due to the rain still falling steadily from the sky.  

 

*****

 

After his conversation with Greg, John had managed to get spectacularly drunk within twenty minutes. He just could no longer deal with the sheer amount of feelings threatening to suffocate him.

He was still so bloody angry at Sherlock and even Lestrade’s words had not sufficed to smother the certainty that it was simply not possible to lie to one’s best friend so profoundly and still _care_.

Two hours later, he was still sitting in his armchair, trying to gather the strength to face Sherlock in the morning. It didn’t seem to work.

But then he recalled Greg’s outbreak, his words still echoing vividly in his head. _He will listen to you, because you’re the only thing that gives his life purpose._ Oh God, how much he wanted this to be true.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dismiss the heaviness in his chest. The inspector had to be wrong, there was no other explanation. Sherlock was simply bored and lacked John’s praise following him wherever he went. This had to be the reason for his addiction – and certainly not that he _missed_ John.

‘What if it’s true? You’ll never forgive yourself’, an unwelcome voice in his head contributed to his already chaotic thoughts. John took a deep breath, trying to hold onto the resolve surging up inside him. He would make sure Sherlock survived by talking him out of the drugs. It was as simple as that. Whatever their relationship had been – true friendship or blatant lie – he owed the detective at least this.

 

*****

 

The next morning, John knocked at the door to 221B. A slightly dishevelled Mrs Hudson with dark circles around her eyes opened the door and instantly pulled John into a motherly hug.

“Oh John, I’m so glad you’re here. He’d be so proud that you brought yourself to come.”

John felt immediately as if someone had emptied a bucket full of ice cubes into his shirt collar. Sherlock hadn’t done it, had he? Was he too late? Oh God, this was not happening. He didn’t even get the chance to listen to him. Oh God …

But then he realised that Mrs Hudson was still rambling about something. “The Detective Inspector is going to find him. He’s working on a plan together with Mycroft upstairs.”

Plan? What plan? John drew back from the hug and finally asked what had happened.

“Oh, you don’t know, do you? No one has found the time to tell you, apparently. It’s been awfully hectic…” At John’s pleading look of impatience, she came to the point: “Sherlock didn’t come home last night. We’re all very worried, because he hasn’t been himself lately …”

John gasped, simultaneously out of unsettlement at the news and out of relief that his change of mind didn’t come too late, as he’d feared a few seconds earlier.

Mrs Hudson hugged him a second time and announced: “I’ll get a cuppa and some biscuits, you go already upstairs and talk to Mycroft and the DI.”

With worry and relief still battling for dominance in his chest, he hurried to his old flat.

The first thing of difference he noticed was the smell. When he used to live here, it had always smelled of a mixture of old books, tea, experiments gone awry and simply _Sherlock_.

Now is just smelled ... dirty. The evidence of Sherlock’s drug habit and boredom lay far-flung across the wooden floor. Sherlock hadn’t even removed the traces of his overdose, the plastic casing of an emergency IV-line was located next to a Sherlock-sized space in the litter on the floor where the paramedics had obviously made space for performing CPR.

A fake cough caused his gaze to wander towards its source and John’s distraught mind finally registered the company of Lestrade and Mycroft in the room.

“You’re here.” Sherlock’s brother didn’t even attempt to conceal the hostility in his posh voice as he stated the obvious.

“Yeah…” was all John could choke out.  

“I’m glad.” Greg smiled faintly at John, trying to reassure him in his decision.

The silence spanning the room was almost palpable. John felt as if he was about to be asphyxiated by it.

He needed to get away from Mycroft’s look of reproach. “I just … I need a moment …”

John turned around and fled, his shivery legs carrying him to the most illogical of all places to go in this situation – Sherlock’s bedroom. 

He slammed the door closed behind him, even though neither Mycroft nor Greg made any effort to follow him.

Inhaling shakily, John took in the sight in front of him. The room was clean, Sherlock had obviously not wasted much time on sleeping since his return. The large bed had been pushed towards the far corner of the room, facing the door.

John’s hand flew to the wall to steady himself as a myriad of feelings threatened to crush him.    

The room smelled so utterly and intensely like Sherlock – luxurious conditioner, coffee, chemicals and the detective’s very own scent – something that had always reminded John of the smell of the time-honoured kind of wood that was used to craft invaluable musical instruments.

He couldn’t breathe, the smell triggered too many painful memories.

After regaining most of his composure, he continued to have a look around. His gaze was caught by something lying on the shelf that had taken the place of Sherlock’s bed underneath the judo certificate.

It was a pile of books, newspapers and some sheets of expensive notepaper. His breathing hitched as he realised that the top sheet was bearing his name.     

 

*****

 

_Restrained. Rope, one inch thick. Attached to metal ring in wall. No weak spots. Not blindfolded, but room poorly lit. Bare chest. Bruises on left clavicle and right hipbone. From kicks with heavy boots._

_Cold. Thirsty. Headache. Why can’t I bloody think properly?? Drugged? Most certainly. Animal tranquiliser? Most likely. Memory?_

_... ?? ..._

_… ?? ..._

_John. Alone. Desperation. Plan. Park. Drugs. Syringe. Car. Right..._

 

Then darkness claimed Sherlock once more.

 

*****

 

**John,**

**That you are reading this means that I have successfully killed myself. I am sure I don’t need to remind you that this note is not an emotional break-out. I refuse to apologise for anything I have done to bring Moriarty’s empire to a fall. Your presence would only have slowed me down, so I got rid of your devotedness quite effectively by lying to you.**

**I have never cared for you in the first place. It was rather foolish of you to believe anything else, since I am a high-functioning sociopath. But since I am a man who despises unsolvable riddles himself, I shall explain my reasons to you. Boredom has once again become an integral part of my life and I do not want to live with it. Living is boring. So I stop living. It is as simple as that.**

**Sherlock Holmes**

 

John’s vision blurred as he finished the letter. He fucking knew it! Sherlock had never cared! Oh God…

His legs threatened to give out under him as his worst misgivings solidified to absolute truths in his heart. His lungs refused to draw in any air at all and both of his hands grabbed the shelf to steady his weak body.

After a few minutes, he straightened up and opened the door behind him. He needed to get out. Just out. 

He left the room without without another look around.

Mycroft and Greg glanced up simultaneously, taking in John’s shocked face and broken demeanour.

“John, are you …” Lestrade’s inquiry was interrupted as John thrust a piece of paper into his face.   

“Gregory, what is it?” Mycroft asked, worry creeping into his tone as the policeman’s hands began to tremble.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “It’s … it’s a suicide note. He left to kill himself … I … Oh God.”

Mycroft snatched the paper from his hands and read the few lines himself, turning paler by the second.

Panic-stricken, Mycroft whipped his phone out and began tapping hectically.

Before he could make the first call, Greg seized his arm. “Mycroft, please don’t leave me out of this, I want to help. We have to find him before it’s too late.”

Before Sherlock’s brother could reply, John stepped between the two men, his lips angrily baring his teeth. “Greg, why do you care about the Freak?” John pronounced the last word very deliberately. “You’ve read the note. Mr Sociopath does not care about anyone but himself, so why bother? Let him die in some shithole, where he belongs.”

No one spoke for several seconds, but John’s words resounded silently in the room, lingering there and besmirching it. Greg seemed to be frozen in place and John gave him a triumphant glare.

So as Greg’s fist impacted on John’s nose, it took him totally by surprise. The policeman grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him down the stairs. “YOU UTTER BASTARD, YOU FUCKING SELFISH ARSEHOLE! How dare you?? What he wrote is not true! He’s just trying to protect you, you ignorant fuck! Don’t you ever come back! I’ll bloody kill you! I’ll rip your fucking throat out if he’s really killed himself!”

Mycroft followed them down the stairs and tried to protest - this was certainly not going to help anyone. But Greg didn't listen, penned-up frustration, anger and worry blinding him.  

Greg threw him out of the front door and onto the street. John stayed there, still totally taken aback, as a thin line of blood was slowly running down his face.

All three men stood panting on the pavement in front of 221B - no one spoke. They all knew that this had taken the worst of turns, but didn't know how to get out of the situation. What they also did not know was the fact that the letter still lying in Mycroft's shaking fist was not the only one Sherlock had written.

The second one was still lying where John had found the first, completely undisturbed.          

 

*****

 

When Sherlock came to he was still in the same room he had been in the first time he had woken up.

Only this time he was not alone.

A tall, bearded ginger leaned against the doorframe, occasionally taking a pull from his cigarette.

He registered Sherlock’s progress at regaining consciousness and strode over to his prisoner, totally at ease. “Finally, there you are. Got almost bored watching you sleep...”

_Irish accent. Not very pronounced. Military gait. Strong physique but delicate fingers. Controlled breathing. Sniper. Knife/gun concealed in left boot. Favouring left shoulder. Stabbing or bullet scar most likely above right clavicle. Memorise as potential target._

Sherlock let his eyes fall closed for exactly three seconds to push the crippling fear in his chest away. And when they opened again, he radiated calm control. Sherlock’s voice strong as he asked: “Who are you? What do you want?”

The man just chuckled and lit up another low tar cigarette. “Do you honestly think you can cut off one arm of a kraken after another without the head noticing? Jim really overestimated you it seems, you are pretty slow. Colonel Sebastian Moran, at your service.”

 _Moran... Moran?_ Sherlock desperately tried to connect this name to a file in his head. _Yes, there it was. Afghanistan veteran. Best sniper in the whole army. Dishonourable discharge ten years ago. Wanted for the assassination of two heads of state at a summit in Eastern Europe. 2,000 metre distance, both targets shot exactly between the eyes._

Why had he not suspected it earlier? This must be Moriarty’s right hand man.

“Ah, I see you’ve made the connection. Yes, Jim trusted me with many things. But I don’t run our little enterprise now. Jim has left me a ... let’s call it a special assignment.” Moran’s grin was predatory.

“And what would that be?” Sherlock asked, still feigning an air of indifference.

“Burn the heart out of you.” Moran replied, his tone so conversational that it sent cold ripples down Sherlock’s spine.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about all the cliffhangers, they're just sooooooo much fun! :D And you all know: It has to get worse before it can get better (which it will. Promise!). Thank you so much for your comments and kudos! They leave me with a big grin every single time. :)


	8. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait (I'm repeating myself, aren't I?). This chapter is a bit longer at least :). I hope you enjoy it!

 

 

John made an unintelligible sound as he pressed his shirtsleeve to his nose, which was still bleeding profusely. Mycroft and Lestrade were both breathing raggedly as they stood on the pavement.

No one said anything for several minutes, until – finally – Greg broke the silence. He knew they weren’t getting anywhere behaving like five-year-olds. “Do you need a handkerchief or something?” He took a step closer to John, who looked up at the inspector’s proposition. John grabbed the offered object with a blood-smeared hand. “I … thanks … I …”, he stammered. John took a deep breath and scrambled to his feet.

Lestrade’s eyes flew back to Mycroft, who had whipped out his mobile once again, then they darted to John. Greg knew that they didn’t have much time.

“John, we have to find him. This letter is not telling the truth. You have to believe me, he feigned his death to protect us. He saved our lives. We don’t have time to explain. Please … he could be dying. Right. Now.”

A black car with tinted windows pulled up next to the three men. Mycroft crossed the pavement in a few strides, not deigning to look at John, and got into the car. Greg threw one last pleading look at John, then, realising that Mycroft would not wait much longer, he got into the car as well.

John remained on the pavement like he was frozen into place, his mind utterly, utterly empty. It was a strange sensation, waiting in complete serenity for the surge of emotion breaking down on him.

Yet, there was nothing else he could do, except pressing the bloody tissue a little harder into his sprained nasal bone than necessary, hoping for the pain to ground him. And ground him it did, like pinching someone out of a daydream. He felt like he could no longer breathe as an unbearable combination of fear, hatred, compassion, hope, despair, friendship, anger and loneliness suddenly plunged into his heart.

_How was this possible? Why would Sherlock…? How could he have …? And why would he then behave like …?_ John began to feel dizzy as a thousand questions swirled through his brain. He was still so confused. And so bloody angry. But there was also hope in his heart. And affection. For his best friend.

For so long, he had attempted to tear both out of it, had first tried to drown it in the ocean of grief Sherlock’s certain death had left behind, then, after his return, had tried to replace it with the unfathomable rage at Sherlock’s indifference.

Yet, now he stood there, in front of 221B, painfully (and also miraculously) finding out that this endeavour had failed. He cared for Sherlock. Deeply. Still trembling, he turned around and entered the door behind him, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s call of concern, as he made his way up to his old flat on unsteady feet.

 

*****

 

Back inside, John immediately headed for Sherlock’s bedroom, as if drawn in by invisible forces. Through the fog of his confusion he realised that he wanted to be as close to Sherlock as possible. The painful memory of why he had left it barely fifteen minutes before took his breath away for a moment. ‘It’s not true. Greg said it’s not true.’ John reminded himself.

Having closed his eyes in an attempt to push away the thought that the note was true after all, he almost banged his shin on Sherlock’s luxurious bedpost. It was still a mystery to John as to why Sherlock had moved the bed. The deep dents in the floor indicated that it must have been located left of the door for a very long time. Sherlock had never been one to redecorate …

For a brief moment, the thought of how John had moved his own bed in the first “flat” he had had back in London, so that it faced the door came to his mind. Back then, his PTSD had caused the worst of nightmares and sleeping with his back to the only exit had simply been impossible. Still, he wondered what Sherlock’s motives had been … Boredom probably.          

 

                                    *****

 

_Cold._ That was the only thought Sherlock’s brain had produced in the last few hours. Not very helpful…

When he heard the quiet scraping of a key turning in the metal door of his cell, he tried to stifle a groan. He was not ready to undergo the procedure of another bucket of water with ice cubes being poured over him. They had done this for hours, keeping him from sleeping and especially from thinking. As Moran entered, he couldn’t help but feel relieved, at least a bit, since he was not carrying a bucket.

The former soldier strutted over to Sherlock and he, despite shivering violently, refused to flinch away as Moran invaded his space. Not that he could have gone anywhere – not with the rope around his wrists still attached to the metal ring above his head. Moran brutally grabbed a handful of dark curls, still damp with water, and yanked his head back so that their eyes met.

Sherlock’s attempt at finding a strong voice, even though his core muscles were mostly occupied with the act of producing heat through contraction, failed. “If you have w-watched me, you s-surely know a-about m-my unpleasant d-detour in Serbia. I c-can assure you that there i-is nothing a-at all you c-can throw at m-me which they h-h-haven’t tried.”

Moran chuckled viciously and replied: “I know everything about this little crusade of yours, Sherlock. I have to admit that, even though we came pretty close several times, you always were one step ahead. It took me only two months to realise that your suicide had been fake... You might ask yourself why your friends are still breathing... The simple truth is that it has been way too much fun to watch you dance, making so many mistakes. If we had killed them you surely would have blown your own brains out, only minutes after receiving the news... Not a quarter as funny if you ask me. Predictable. When you came back to England and you parted with the good doctor, it surprised me a little bit, honestly. But the reason for this is relatively obvious, to me at least. I believe that you didn’t tell him the whole truth so that Johnny-Boy didn’t have to feel guilty.”

Sherlock concentrated his whole being on concealing the sadness in his features, but he must have failed spectacularly since Moran exclaimed: “Bull’s eye! Ohhh, we’re  gonna have so much fun, Sherly. You and me.”  

 

*****

 

In Sherlock’s bedroom, John’s gaze travelled from the misplaced bed to the shelf opposite. As he had found Sherlock’s suicide note, he had not noticed it, but now he did: there was another pile of paper, partly covered by a pile of newspapers with the ‘hat detective’ and the ‘confirmed bachelor’ on their title pages. _This utter arsehole, how could he do that? Throw away our friendship for a game of hide and seek with criminals?_ John flinched as this unwelcome thought tore through him upon this reminder of their time together. It wasn’t true. It had to be not true. It just had to be.

Pushing away the doubts in his head as far as possible, he picked up the sheets of paper. The first one said _John._ Again. He did not in the slightest feel ready for this. His vision blurred and he began to shiver. He could not deal with another letter like the one before. Regardless, he began to read.      

 

**John,**

**My beloved John. I have no idea why I am putting your name first. You are never going to read this. You must never know. I’m writing everything down I have to say, but can’t say. Tomorrow, DI Lestrade will find my body. After finishing this I will leave the flat to purchase a sufficient amount of heroin to kill me and I will administer it after getting rid of these sheets of paper.**

**Next to my body there will be found a note explaining that I simply was too bored to be bothered with breathing any longer. Further it will state that I do not regret lying to you since I never cared about you in the first place. It is paramount that I succeed in making you believe this. Otherwise you will never be able to let go and always feel guilty. This can never happen. You must have a happy life, thriving with everything I could not give you. That is why I say my goodbyes through this letter, burning it later cowardly in the fire where it will join the ashes of my violin. Pathetic.**

**What I am going to write will explain why I pushed you away. I killed myself to save your life. And you can never know this, because it will crush you with guilt. If I had told you this when we met at Mycroft’s office, you would have stayed with me – but not out of genuine affection, but out of honour. You are the most honourable man I have ever known after all. And after a reasonable amount of time you would have left, because that’s what people do. They leave, because I hurt them. You must never know the truth, because you don’t owe me anything. You’ve saved my life so many times and in so many ways. I owe everything to you.**

**John, when I was with Moriarty on the rooftop he told me to jump, or my only friends in the world would die. That included you, Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade. I had to jump in front of you, to make you believe, or snipers would have shot you and the others in the head.**

**I couldn’t let that happen. And so I jumped, broke my right clavicle and my nose on impact, even though I managed to hit the waste truck. Molly, who had provided my dead doppelganger, patched me up and then I went hunting for members of Moriarty’s web.**

 

 

John could feel tears trickle down his cheeks and he hurriedly dried them with his sleeve. How could this be? What was this? If this was the truth.... then he had made a terrible mistake. And it was possible that he never got the chance to make it right, because Sherlock could be dying, right in this very moment, and John could not do anything about it. The utter helplessness taking possession of his whole body reminded him excessively of that fateful day of Sherlock’s fall. He could almost feel a slender wrist without pulse between his fingertips, the words ‘He’s my friend...’ echoing in his restless mind. Stubbornly refusing to lose it completely, he went into the kitchen, prepared a cup of tea with shaky fingers, sat down onto the sofa in the living room and continued to read.

 

**Moriarty’s trail led me from Singapore to Belgium, from Madagascar to Uruguay, from Japan to France. I lied and hacked and deceived and killed. I found the snipers and their organisations, of course all part of The Web, and I killed them, sometimes with Mycroft’s men. Unfortunately, I’m a terrible shot and that’s why I had to get close to most of them. I made miscalculations far too often, got shot once and was stabbed twice. I should rethink my labelling myself a sociopath, it really got to me. Apparently, I am not a psychopath either, because Donovan was wrong. I don’t get off on it, not in the slightest. I used to dream about them every night, their dead vacant eyes staring into nothingness, blood pooling around them. I used to dream about my night on a construction site in Paris. It had been dark and so damn cold. It took Mycroft’s agent seven hours to find me, my hands too numb to stop the blood flowing from the deep stab wound in my right thigh. Nearly cost me my life that one.**

**Now my dreams are about something else, now they are about Serbia. Belgrade was supposed to be my last stop before finally going home. But I failed you, John. Again. I had smuggled my way through the ranks of the Serbian terror cell. But they caught me hacking their firewall. They were about to execute me. I already felt the cold muzzle of the gun against my temple. My last thoughts travelled to you. I knew you were safe, it was the last piece of the puzzle after all, even Mycroft would have been able to end it from there on. But then the ranking officer entered the room and he was convinced that I could leak some valuable information. So they dragged me off to one of their interrogation facilities – and I didn’t leave it for six months.**

 

 

John tried to swallow around the lump in his throat and breathe through the heaviness in his chest. Six bloody months... What the hell had they done to him? Why hadn’t Mycroft managed to get him out earlier? John wanted to punch something, preferably himself, for being too much of a coward to sit down with Sherlock and talk. It might be too late for that now ... No, he mustn’t think like that. They were going to see each other again. And then he would get the chance to listen.

 

**Since the real you is never going to read this, I can be frank. I can tell you everything, even the things I didn’t tell Mycroft’s dull MI6 therapist in the military hospital. Talking to her was a bloody waste of her and my time. It didn’t lessen the flashbacks or the nightmares.**

**I used to conjure you up in my mind, you know, when the pain and the loneliness became unbearable in the sombre cell. We would talk about old cases and London, about eating Chinese food and drinking tea, about making it home and finally being together again. And when I was close to reaching my breaking point during one of the countless interrogations, you would help me keep my mouth shut, keep me awake and give me strength. Your presence next to me was a constant reminder of my pain’s purpose: keep John safe. You even helped me through some flashbacks when I came back. You would just appear and tell me what was real and what was not. Ironic, isn’t it? Imaginary John keeping imaginary threats at bay.**

 

 

John slowly slid to the floor, suddenly feeling unworthy of sitting on Sherlock’s sofa. He shivered as sobs made their way out of his mouth, tears blurring his vision. They sneaked down and fell heavily onto the paper, smudging Sherlock’s already scratchy writing into something utterly untidy. John could hardly concentrate anymore, fingers shaking ceaselessly. But he had to go on, that was all he could do at the moment.

 

**Mycroft had found me two months before I returned to London. I remember little from the daring rescue, but my brother later told me that dehydration, pneumonia and infected whip marks had wreaked havoc on my body. But apparently six months of captivity, torture and isolation also affect the mind quite severely. When he came to rescue me, I didn’t realise my brother was real. I thought my imagination wanted to annoy me and I asked him to “bloody leave me alone” and kept talking to my version of you. Mycroft later told me that the field medic had to sedate me, so that they could get me out, because I wouldn’t stop screaming. I think this sight really got to my elder brother. After making sure that I would survive my injuries, he left the safe house where I was taken care of. He stayed away for two days. When he returned, he definitely thought I was in no condition to deduce what he had been doing, but the tell-tale blood stain under his right earlobe told me everything I needed to know. I imagine this year’s Christmas present for me was going to be a box with my torturers’ fingernails. He does love to be dramatic. Maybe he will bury them with me.**

 

 

A disturbingly vivid picture suddenly appeared before John’s eyes: Sherlock’s rail-thin frame, his sunken eyes, and pale skin. White-knuckled fingers clutching to the chair’s backrest in Mycroft’s office. The hunched posture that implied severe pain, a circular burn on his hand, almost obscured by his sleeve. John scrambled to his feet, turned almost calmly to the wall behind him and dashed his fist into it, right next to the yellow smiley. He faintly registered the thought ‘Mrs H is going to be furious’, but it felt like his brain was no longer connected to his body. He slid back to the couch and picked up the last sheet of paper, not noticing that he smeared the blood everywhere that oozed ceaselessly out of the broken skin of his knuckles, and continued to read.

 

**John, you can’t possibly grasp the number of things I regret. I regret not being smart enough to stop Moriarty in time. I regret being so very arrogant that I didn’t realise that I had lost control. I regret not finding another solution to the puzzle. I regret not bloody dying in that damp cellar. If I had died, you would never have learned to hate me. Your memory of me would have been good. Your life would have been peaceful. But instead I was selfish enough to return to you, hoping you would forgive me. But you’re right. I deserve neither your friendship nor your forgiveness. And I regret that I have never told you what you mean to me. Before The Fall that is ... you wouldn’t believe me now.**

**Nothing makes sense anymore without you. The Work, experiments, even the bloody violin... they all deny me the joy they’ve once given me, because I can’t share them with you.**

**I am certain that I won’t survive the overdose this time, partly because I won’t take any risks regarding the dose, but most importantly because I finally told you everything. Even if I am just imagining you. You stand next to me and give me this warm-hearted smile of yours. You tell me that I am forgiven. Maybe this means that I forgive myself, you are not real after all.**

**It’s getting dark outside. It’s time.**

**Live, be happy and please don’t mourn me. I don’t deserve it.**

**Thank you for giving me purpose. Thank you for making me whole.**

**I love you.**

**Sherlock**

 

 

John stared at the page until it skittered out of his trembling hands and to the floor. He buried his face in his hands, sobbing miserably. What if Sherlock hadn’t disappeared? He would have returned to Baker Street, burned the letter and then he would have killed himself. He would lie right here, right here on this very carpet, choked on his own vomit or suffocated due to the failure of his diaphragm. And John would never have found out the truth. He would have lived his life thinking that Sherlock had never cared about him. He would have hated him, not knowing that his best friend had given his life – twice – to protect him.

But maybe John would be given another chance and he would never let it go. He would get Sherlock to believe him that he cared. _Oh God_ , how he cared. He almost choked on the pure affection flowing through him, sending jolts through his spine, endlessly multiplied by months of suppression.    

 

***** 

 

_No longer mourn for me when I am dead_

_Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell_

_Give warning to the world that I am fled_

_From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:_

_Nay, if you read this line, remember not_

_The hand that writ it; for I love you so_

_That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot_

_If thinking on me then should make you woe._

_O, if, I say, you look upon this verse_

_When I perhaps compounded am with clay,_

_Do not so much as my poor name rehearse._

_But let your love even with my life decay,_

_Lest the wise world should look into your moan_

_And mock you with me after I am gone._

William Shakespeare, “Sonnet 71”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I would get better! Or is this worse? I haven't decided yet ...


	9. Igniting Insanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I am so sorry that it took me so long to update! The workload this semester is killing every last bit of free time I used to have ... But I hope the fact that the new chapter is twice as long as the others will pacify you a bit :D. Thanks for reading, kudos and for your comments! :)
> 
> PS: I didn't have much time to proofread, that's why I'm very sorry if this chapter contains more typos than the others ;).

 

John violently startled out of his numb state. He had no idea how long he had been this way. It took him several minutes to register that what had dragged him out of his thoughts were faint voices reaching his ears from the stairs.

He could make out Mycroft’s unusual soft tones trying to comfort a weeping Mrs Hudson. As John also heard footsteps approaching, he hurriedly jumped to his feet and stuffed the battered letter in front of him into his pocket. He was not in the slightest ready to share what he had just read. It felt like a gift in his hands and it felt wrong to pass on Sherlock’s deepest feelings without his consent.

“… this has to be coordinated, get me …” Mycroft’s voice died in his throat as he laid eyes on John. Then his gaze wandered to a no less surprised Lestrade. ‘Looks like Mrs H didn’t get to inform them about my presence.’ John thought. “What is he still doing here?” Mycroft refused to address John directly, so he angrily turned towards Greg, who seemed more than happy about John’s presence.

“I … I couldn’t leave. I realised that, no matter what happened between Sherlock and me … He might be in danger and … the least he deserves is that I help getting him back …” John let his arms fall helplessly to his side. Every fibre of his being hoped that Greg and Mycroft would just let him _bloody help_ – without questioning his sudden change of heart. “Please … just tell me what you’ve discovered. Please …”

For a few moments Mycroft simply stared at John’s face, taking in the utter torment being reflected there.

Then, as John was almost expecting to be dragged out from the British Government by his hair, Mycroft’s anger ceased and he started to explain: “We checked all security cameras and were able to reconstruct his route to Regent’s Park. But he did not approach his usual dealer. Instead, he disappeared in one of the only blind spots in the whole park. We have no idea where he is …”

John had to use all the strength he could muster not to let his impatient anger show in his voice as he replied: “How is that even possible? I thought you had him under surveillance after all that’s happened?”

Mycroft sighed. “The agent in charge of keeping track of my brother’s whereabouts was … careless. He didn’t even realise he had left the flat, let alone that he hadn’t returned. We’ve only discovered this now – after watching the tapes ourselves. I’ve fired the agent of course, but that - ”

“What about his mobile?” John interjected. “The signal died in the exact spot he disappeared.” Greg said, who had started to nervously walk back and forth.

“So what do we do now? Mycroft? Greg?” John’s eyes wandered from one man to the other.

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked down at his right hand, which gripped his mobile tightly in an attempt to hide its shaking. “Gregory’s and my men are looking for him. There’s nothing more we can do at the moment.”

“There has to be something!! I can’t just… We have to do something!” John’s voice broke and he rushed to the window – partly to hide the tears of furious frustration running down his cheeks, but also to calm the nausea burning in his guts. His gaze travelled over the people on the pavement, until it was caught by a young woman sitting on the ground. She must have been in her late twenties, her shabby clothes and hair left no doubt that she was homeless. At every passing pedestrian she looked up hopefully and said something – probably asking for change.

All of a sudden a memory appeared in John’s head, vivid like it had been only yesterday: Sherlock jumping over a barrier and handing a small piece of folded paper to a homeless woman. _The Homeless Network - my eyes and ears all over the city_ … John flinched as Sherlock’s voice echoed loudly in his mind. “That’s it!” he exclaimed und jumped to Sherlock’s desk to rummage through the chaos. Not noticing Greg’s and Mycroft’s bewildered look, John scribbled something onto a piece of paper and stormed out of the flat.

 

*****

 

Charlotte rubbed her hands together once again, still hoping to somehow manage to produce some heat by doing so. It didn’t seem to work. “Spare some change, sir?” The man she had asked acted like she wasn’t even there and disappeared around the next corner.

Charlotte sighed and looked into the coffee cup in front of her. 4 pounds and 45 pence. That was all she had been able to get today. It certainly wasn’t much, but at least it was enough for something to eat. From the corner of her eye, she spotted another shadow approaching her from the side. “Spare some change?” Charlotte asked (still polite, even after her last encounter). The man stopped right next to her and she looked up hopefully. His face was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t remember where she had seen him before. To her surprise, he knelt down next to her and handed her a folded banknote. “Here you go.” he murmured to her and then he was already gone.

She was too perplexed to check where he was going. She carefully unfolded the note and upon finishing the task, she almost forgot how to breathe. A hundred pounds! She had never even seen so much money with her own eyes, let alone held it in her hand! Yet, she realised that the strange man had not only handed her the tightly folded banknote. Inside, there was a small piece of paper with a few lines, obviously written in a hurry:

 

**To the Network:**

**SH in danger, last seen in Regent’s Park.**

**All hints to 221B. Hurry.**

**JW**    

 

*****

 

Sherlock was dying. He was pretty sure he was dying. He had no idea how long it had been since Moran’s men had taken him. It was simply impossible to keep track of time in a room without a window and with a body that just wanted to give up, but wasn’t able to because of buckets and buckets of freezing water.

Sherlock could no longer feel his limbs (apart from a dull throbbing pain, which just didn’t seem to ever cease) and wasn’t able to concentrate on anything anymore. His foggy brain faintly registered that the door to his cell opened. Moran entered, his gait as relaxed as ever, and he knelt down in front of Sherlock’s shivering body. Minutes of silence passed.

No longer able to bear Moran’s triumphant sneer, Sherlock finally spoke up: “W-why are y-you doing t-this? Just k-kill me.” Speaking had cost more strength than he had anticipated, but Moran waited patiently for Sherlock to catch his breath again.  

Moran’s voice was utterly calm as he answered. “To remind you, Sherlock: You see, dear Jim, may he rest in peace and all that, told me that he had a special job for me. That I was to execute said job if he was no longer able. I want to _burn the heart out of you._ ” Sherlock couldn’t help but flinch again at that phrase from the swimming pool. Utter despair threatened to overwhelm him – he was, however, not yet ready to succumb to it without a fight.

Once again, he gathered all the strength he could muster to speak. “I h-have to admit t-that this has b-been rather u-unpleasant, b-but I a-assure you that t-the S-Serbians d-did a b-better job.” Moran’s laughter echoed uncannily through the room, jumping from one wall to the next. “Oh Sherly! You really disappoint me if you think that dunking you in a bit of water is this big plan of ours! That’s just to make sure that you won’t come up with any good escape plans. Believe it or not, Jim highly respected your intellect, he even once said that your mind is equal to his. That’s why I will not make the mistake of underestimating you.”

Realisation clicked into place. Dehydration. Hypothermia. Sleep deprivation. Withdrawal. First of all Moran wanted to smother the most powerful weapon he owned: his mind. Sherlock was sure that Moran’s plan was already working and there was no way to stop it. The feeling of utmost helplessness crawled down his spine as he felt the last bit of concentration he had slip through his fingers like dry sand.

Evidently enjoying Sherlock’s reaction, Moran continued: “You have to admit that you and Jim got to know each other pretty well during that little tête-à-tête of yours. He knew exactly how to properly fuck you up. He just never got to complete the task. Since he had always been a cautious man, Jim let me in on his plan. He went even further … well, Jim being Jim... he gave me a list.” Sherlock choked out a mad giggle, completely flabbergasted that Moriarty’s insanity haunted him beyond the grave.

“And w-what is on this l-l-list, if I m-may ask?”

Moran smirked. “You may. In fact, I want that all you think about is this list. You’ll see that it is very short, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be effective. The key essence is that you are to feel responsible for what is going to happen. You’ll see.”  

He pinned a battered piece of paper to the wall to Sherlock’s left with duct tape, the handwriting from a biro slightly bleached and smudged around the edges.

Sherlock’s head slumped to the wall and he closed his eyes for a few seconds, because it was already getting hard to focus his gaze. Most unsettling. After gathering enough strength, he turned his head to the left and read the ornamental handwriting which could have been from a giggling schoolgirl if it hadn’t belonged to the most dangerous criminal in the world.

 

**Seb,**

**1) Get Sherlock and make John come for him.**

**2) Kill John.**

**3) Make Sherlock watch.**

**X**

**Jim**

 

Sherlock heard someone’s scream. I took him several seconds to realise that he was the one screaming. He had no idea where the strength came from, it just _was there_. John. No, not John. “John w-won’t come, he h-hates me! You’re w-wasting your t-time! K-kill me now! Argh! K-Kill me! He won’t c-come!” Anger, terror, despair and grief merged in his gut and bubbled up his throat, threatening to suffocate him.

“He’ll come.” Moran grinned and walked out of the room.    

 

 

*****

 

“Anything new from the surveillance cameras, Mycroft? Have you found another one recording Sherlock?” Mycroft shook his head, still texting at an unbelievingly rapid speed like the last 24 hours. Said time had been filled with the investigation of a dozen hints from The Network, but none had checked out. It was unbelievable how fast the girl from the corner (John still felt bad for not even asking her for her name) had spread the information from his note.

At least every few minutes new info came in. Since Sherlock’s Network was vast and he only dealt with a small number of people personally, the sheer number and vagueness of the tips was overwhelming. Maybe they asked the wrong questions, or maybe it just took a Sherlock Holmes to tame this Hydra and bring order to the information in its many heads. John didn’t know. All that John had been able to think in the last day was that they were running out of time and that he just couldn’t stand another promising hint turning out to be something utterly useless. He just couldn’t. John couldn’t even say which possible situation was worse: that Sherlock had been taken by someone or that he overdosed in some dark alley, alone and without hope of rescue.  

John tried to silence the awful headache throbbing in his skull by pinching the bridge of his nose for what felt like the thousandth time. It still didn’t work.

“John, you really should lie down a bit, you look terrible. But drink this first, love, will you?” Mrs Hudson brushed his hair back affectionately and gestured to the steaming mug of tea in his hands. Where did that come from? And how long had he been holding it?

Lestrade gave him a scrutinising look of concern and added: “She’s right, John. You haven’t slept _at all_ for almost two days. If Mycroft and I have managed to sleep a little, so can you. I promise to wake you if anything happens.” John took a few deep breaths, trying to ban the anger, that wouldn’t be of any help in this situation, from his voice, before replying: ”I can understand that you’re worried... But I just can’t. I’ll drink the tea. I’ll even close my eyes for a bit here on the sofa. But I won’t go and sleep. Not happening.” Something in John’s tone led the others to silently accept his decision without further discussion and Mrs Hudson returned to her own flat.           

John had only dozed for half an hour, arms crossed in front of his chest, as his phone chimed, heralding a text. He startled, immediately fully awake, and looked at the screen, expecting another hint from The Network. But then his breath hitched as he read the short message.

 

**Johnny-Boy,**

**You might wanna check out your front door.**

**And hurry up a bit, don’t give Sherly the cold shoulder. ;D**

**M**

 

John stared at the text for several seconds, the letters failing to penetrate the hopeless blankness of his mind, before he abruptly dropped the phone onto the carpet beneath his feet and sprinted downstairs. “John? What the ...?” Lestrade called after him, following suit after exchanging a concerned look with Mycroft.

The inspector met John halfway as he was already returning, a present box shaped like a gingerbread man in hand. John and Greg both dashed back upstairs. “John, what is it?” Mycroft asked in a demonstratively even-tempered voice. John dropped the box onto the kitchen table and inhaled deeply before replying: “I think – I think I know what happened to Sherlock. This’ll sound pretty crazy ... but I think it’s Moriarty. He took Sherlock.”

John tried to counteract the other two men’s incredulity by showing them the text on his phone. Mycroft tensed momentarily, whereas Lestrade’s demeanour still betrayed lack of comprehension. “Guys? What is it? Could someone please fill me in, because ‘M’ could be anyone, right?” John sighed, because he was, for the first time, about to share information about the traumatic night at the pool with someone else than Sherlock or Mycroft. “Greg, you haven’t met him... He called me ‘Johnny-Boy’ when he abducted me. And it’s not just that... the playful tone of the text and the gingerbread man... it fits perfectly.”

Lestrade glanced back at Mycroft, whose eyes were fixed on John. “I can assure you that I was very thorough when investigating James Moriarty’s death. I saw his corpse myself, the possibility of an error simply doesn’t exist. But there is only one way to be sure, you need to open the box, John.” The doctor’s eyes scrutinised Mycroft’s, looking for any signs of insecurity, but as he saw the determination in them, he turned towards the kitchen table.

“Alright, here we go.” John sucked his breath in like it was his last, the sheer amount of possibilities what the box could contain making him nauseous. His mind supplied him with vivid pictures of cut off fingers, whole fingernails covered in blood and an eyeball. Not very enticing prospects. Lifting the lid from the case took all the mental strength he could muster and he couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as its contents turned out to be an inconspicuous USB flash drive.

John plugged it into his laptop and clicked on the only file thereon, a video. The three men tensed and struggled to control their breathing in order to brave the scene unfolding before their eyes. The screen portrayed a damp cellar, the only light source was a spotlight to the camera’s left that threw its cold glare into the right corner of the room. In said corner, John realised with gut-wrenching certainty, was Sherlock.

His wrists were tied up above his head, his arms shivering weakly. He was conscious, but obviously only barely holding on, his respiratory rate too slow, only shallow and irregular, wheezing breaths passing his blue lips, eyelids fluttering. Hypothermia. John recognised it instantly, he had seen dozens of soldiers who had underestimated the cold nights in Afghanistan. But this was much more severe. Sherlock needed help, it would soon be too late.

The camera, which obviously was being held by a tripod, focused on the disturbing picture for several minutes. Nothing else happened, time stretched unbearably, until the camera’s microphone absorbed the muffled crunching of footsteps on concrete, soon joined by a rough and deep voice. “Well, well, well. I deeply regret that I lack Jim’s impeccable sense of drama. He would have made you guess his identity in some clever game. But that’s just not really my thing...” A red-haired man appeared in front of the camera, interrupting the line of sight to Sherlock.

“I’m Colonel Sebastian Moran. Hi! I have been Jim’s right hand for so many years. But don’t worry if you weren’t aware of the fact that I existed: I won’t take it personally, because secrecy was kind of the whole point of this.” The man’s smirk was so boyish and light-hearted that John’s chest almost exploded with disgust. “Me and Sherly here, we had a great time over the last days, right? Sherly? Hey! Excuse me for a sec.”

Moran turned around and crossed the distance to Sherlock’s shaking frame in only two steps. He grabbed Sherlock’s head and yanked it back brutally. “Can’t you show any respect? You can’t sleep when we have guests. Wake. The. Fuck. Up.” Every one of the last four words was accompanied by a vicious kick to Sherlock’s ribcage. He started to cough and retched violently. The distribution of adrenalin through his bloodstream, triggered by the sudden sharp pain, let his eyes fly open. John’s stomach clenched at the sight of Sherlock’s evident lack of orientation and of focus in his eyes.  

   

*****

 

Pain. This was the first thing to penetrate the thick fog engulfing Sherlock’s brain. The intense shivering and the stabbing sensation in his limbs had ceased several hours ago. Now he just felt numb and was drifting in and out of consciousness. Sherlock realised that Moran held his curls in an iron grip and that he was saying something. More pain. Why couldn’t he stop coughing? Every one of his core muscles burned and cramped around cracked ribs, the sheer agony of it slightly snapped him out of his detached state. More muffled words. “... , because I have a score to settle with Sherlock, Dr Watson.”

John? Was John there? Where...? No he was obviously not, just a camera. Stupid. There was something important he needed to tell John... Something... What was it? Bloody brain, too slow... John was in danger, but why? Moran had told him... he had told him the plan... Moran wanted to lure John there, that was it! Did he tell him how? Didn’t matter, he needed to warn John.

 

*****

 

John grabbed the edge of the kitchen table with full force, his fingers turning white. He was coerced to witness as the most important person in his life (and he could no longer fool anyone, especially himself: he had never stopped caring deeply for Sherlock) struggled for breath and heaved as Moran broke at least three of his ribs. Moran had not desisted from pulling at Sherlock’s scalp the whole time and the detective slowly managed to come up to a state akin to consciousness.

The sight made John shudder involuntarily; Sherlock’s pupils were obviously unable to focus properly. As he began to speak, his voice was barely more than a faint whisper. “John... you can’t ... he – he wants to – to lure you h-here. Don’t come f-f-for me... please... don’t. He’ll kill y-you... can’t... John... p-please... let me die... d-don’t come... please.” Sherlock’s eyes rolled back into his head, his body surrendering in the face of the exertion of speaking and Moran let go of his hair. Sherlock’s skull slumped to the side and impacted on the wall, a dull crack echoing through the cold room.

Moran strode back to the camera and stated coldly: ”Well, I think dear Sherlock needs to take a nap. But at least this offers us the chance to talk privately, John. Sherly is absolutely right, I do intend to kill you. But I am fairly certain that this won’t deter you from coming for your boyfriend here. However, for fairness’ sake, I must insist you come alone. If you choose to disobey and bring someone else ... well let’s just say you won’t find Sherlock in pieces big enough to bury. Take a cab to Nine Elms and wait on Kirtling Street near Battersea Power Station, I’ll text you with further instructions. Now on you go, c’mon!” Moran grinned again and then the screen went dark.

John, Mycroft and Lestrade had been staring at the laptop for several seconds, as John’s brain finally kicked into gear. So many hours of crippling helplessness and no sleep were forgotten, because he finally could _do_ something. He was about to dash into the bathroom to loot the medicine cabinet for supplies as Greg seized his arm.

“John, we need to talk about this.” John broke free from the inspector’s grip. “No, Greg, we don’t. There is no way I am going to leave Sherlock in the hands of this maniac. I’m going after him and I’m going alone. You can wait a few blocks away and send in the cavalry as soon as I have put a bullet between this fucker’s eyes and secured Sherlock. Not up for discussion. I mean it.” Lestrade could only bear up against John’s challenging stare for a few seconds.

The dark shadow lurking behind those warm eyes made Greg shudder. Sherlock had been right about John. This man was a living contradiction. Healer and soldier. Ready to save a life, but also ready to take one. Uncertain, Greg looked questioningly over to Mycroft, who had not moved at all since the end of the video. Sherlock’s brother simply turned to John, his gaze betraying horror, but also something akin to proud determination, and asked: “What do you need?”

John’s back straightened, Captain Watson immediately taking the reins. “I need a gun, preferably a standard issue British Army SIG Sauer P226, six magazines with 9mm hollow-point bullets and body armour.” Mycroft simply replied “Done.” and began texting hectically.

Lestrade regarded the two wearily, dragging one hand through his already unruly hair, and finally said: “I’ll just act like I haven’t heard that, shall I?”

 

 


	10. The Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!  
> I really hope you enjoy the new chapter. Due to my rapidly approaching state exam in psychology (February, oh my god, I'm so scared ...) I didn't have much time to proofread (it's 2 am in Germany, what is life?) . But I figured it's better to give you this chapter now than to wait until after my exam. As always, please feel free to tell me if you spot any mistakes.   
> One more thing: This here is my Tumblr: www.tumblr.com/blog/thebittersweetnightshade. If this is something you find helpful, I'll also post notifications about new chapters (plus excuses for taking so long :D) etc. there.   
> Thanks for reading! And now on with the drama:

 

The sun slowly vanished behind the chimneys of Battersea Power Station, casting rays of feeble red light onto the dingy pavement of Kirtling Street. John lingered under a street lamp after the cab had dropped him off, his fingers brushing the handle of the gun resting against his hip. How Mycroft had managed to procure the requested equipment on such short notice was beyond him. Even the hollow-point bullets, which weren’t even exactly legal in the UK, had been brought to 221B by one of his numerous operatives within twenty minutes.

John had breathed a sigh of relief after he had checked the clips handed to him. The bullets were meant for Moran and only for Moran. The more damage they inflicted on him the better, the thought of injuring Sherlock with a ricochet bullet from John’s own gun was simply unbearable. He just wished he had a better plan than: burst in, kill everyone, grab Sherlock, turn tail and run. Moran’s phone had proved to be untraceable; they had no idea where to look for him. The only thing that John _did_ know was that he would not be able to live without Sherlock. So if he went to his death, so be it. But he would make damn sure to take Moran with him. It was as simple as that.   

Benumbing fear crept up his spine as John waited. What if Moran had changed his mind and wouldn’t contact him? What if it was already too late? The image of Sherlock lying against the stone wall, unseeing eyes staring into nothingness, caused John to draw a sharp breath. _In one two, out three four five._ He managed to will down the panic rising in his throat with the easy breathing technique he had learned from his PTSD therapist in what seemed like another life.

He recalled the broken words spoken in front of Sherlock’s gravestone: _I was so alone and I owe you so much._ Oh, how much truth had been in these words. How much guilt John had loaded onto himself by refusing to offer Sherlock the same salvation in his loneliness. Grief threatened to constrict his chest, but he shook it off. He would not fail. He would not let go of the only chance to atone for not giving Sherlock the opportunity to explain, for pushing him away. He would not fail.  

 

*****

 

“Wakey, wakey, Sherlock!” Moran loped into the damp cellar that had been the location of the detective’s torment for the past days, smiling gleefully. Through the fog of fever, which had started a few hours ago, Sherlock’s sluggish brain faintly registered that the man draped a filthy blanket around him and held a cup to his lips. Sherlock gathered all his strength to stubbornly press his lips together in an attempt to evade whatever torture Moriarty’s protégé was about to bestow in him now.

Moran simply tutted disappointedly, slapping Sherlock skilfully into full consciousness. “You should drink, you know. It’s not poisoned or anything. I’ve simply been carried away a bit with my having fun with you... And you don’t want to miss the show, do you? When Johnny-Boy marches in to rescue his damsel in distress and I paint these walls with his brains, _I want to hear you scream._ ”

Sherlock breathed frantically, a sickly wheeze (definitely a bit not good...) already rattling in his chest. John. He wouldn’t be so reckless to come for him, would he? God, how much he hoped that John just ignored the video he had most certainly received from Moran. _You should have stayed dead._ At the memory of these words, spat out by his beloved John in utter hatred, Sherlock’s vision blurred.

He would bring John nothing but pain and devastation. He needed to die, as soon as possible. This was the only chance to thwart Moran’s plan – and thus save John’s life. As Moran urged him to drink a second time, Sherlock just glared at him, his eyes betraying naked contempt. If his dehydrated body had had any saliva to spare, he would have spat at him.

Moriarty’s successor scowled at his captive and bashed the cup to the nearest wall. “Suit yourself then. But don’t you fucking dare to pass out when your boyfriend is here. If you do, I’ll cut your bloody eyes open!” With these words, Moran stormed out of the room, leaving Sherlock to his desperation.

Moran reached into his pocket and began to write a text. It was time to end this, time to avenge Jim’s death. After hitting the ‘send’ button, he selected the feed from a security camera portraying a nervous Dr Watson. Then he switched to the cameras covering the entrance and scowled at the inapt and utterly exchangeable guards. They were mercenaries, the herd of well-trained and loyal men from Moriarty’s Web had unfortunately been thinned out considerably by the Holmes brothers.

Moran knew that there was most likely no walking away from this. Mycroft Holmes was a very powerful man and he would not hesitate to dispatch his army to hunt him down. But he would make sure that it would be too late. He would kill John and Sherlock first, then wait for hell to break loose. Jim’s legacy lay in ruins, but it could be rebuilt, just not by his loyal right-hand man. He had a different purpose, and he would not fail. They would pay.  

 

*****

 

John’s phone vibrated against his thigh and he brought it up to his face, his eyes darkening as he read the text.

 

**Go to the blue rolling gate and knock. My men will let you in. I won’t tell you that you can’t fight, feel free to do so. They have orders to take you alive. You might even be able to take some of them out, morons the whole lot.. But be assured that I am monitoring. The moment I see someone else, a bullet goes through Sherly’s brain. Good luck, don’t be boring.**

**M**

 

John read the text three times before putting away his phone. Moran’s insanity was obviously in no way inferior to Moriarty’s. He was literally inviting him to fight his way through to Sherlock. John was going to put this fucker down, he was sure of it. Greg’s and Mycroft’s men were waiting a few blocks away, tracking John’s phone and holding a perimeter of a one-mile radius. The blue gate awaited him some fifty yards onwards. He dragged in another deep breath to calm himself, adjusted the grip of his gun so that it was easier to reach and yet concealed by his jumper, and knocked.

A mechanism opened the gate at a horribly slow pace, revealing a dimly lit factory hall. As soon as John could peek inside, he crouched behind a pile of metal grates, drawing his gun. “Come out with your hands behind your head and you won’t be hurt.”

John could hear the agitation in the man’s voice coming from another pile, staying in cover. John had to grin at that despite himself, thinking: ‘Moran, you absolute idiot. One does not skimp on mercenaries. These arseholes have no idea what they’re doing.’

John estimated the position of the person speaking and tried to fathom the number of gunmen in the warehouse. He could hear at least four men and as one of them tried to approach him, he fired swiftly over the grate, putting two rounds in his chest. The clatter of heavy boots on concrete gave away that two of Moran’s mercenaries were about to relocate to surround him.

John reacted instantly, diving headlong to his left, taking one of them by surprise as he buried his knee in the man’s groin and knocked him unconscious with his elbow. The second man, who was trying to get behind John to his right, took advantage of his adversary’s temporary moment of occupation and shot in the direction of John as soon as his colleague hit the ground. John immediately returned fire, hitting the mercenary right into the neck.

John ducked behind the nearest pillar, his exhalations coming in harsh pants. His left hand sneaked to his sternum, where a bullet had been stopped by his vest, but not without spraining the bone on impact. He looked down and noticed a thin rivulet of blood dribbling from his wrist, originating from a graze on his right upper arm.

He allowed himself sixty seconds to catch his breath and tried to spot the presumably last guard. As he failed to hear anything, he scrambled to his feet, looking around. The hall seemed empty, but John knew better than to trust this impression. Slowly and with his back to the wall, he walked towards the only exit apart from the one he came from, an inconspicuous metal door.

He touched the door handle and as soon as it was pressed down slightly, the door was pushed open brutally. John jumped backwards, ready to fight. He tried to aim properly, but the man standing in the doorframe kicked at John’s wrist and the gun clattered to the floor. But before Moran’s thug could even level his pistol with John, the doctor headbutted him and used the ensuing confusion to close his arm around the man’s neck.

The mercenary struggled, but his movements ceased as John retrieved his knife from his pocket and held it vertically against the man’s throat. “Now listen to me, you piece of scum. I’m a doctor, so when I aim for your internal jugular vein, I fucking won’t miss. So now you can choose: you either tell me where Moran is, or you can bleed out in less than two minutes. Which will it be?” To emphasise the severity of his threat, John dragged the blade down slighty, causing a few beads of blood to trickle into the man’s collar.

“O-Ok ok, I’ll t-tell you! Just ... Christ ... d-don’t ... just s-stop!” The man’s breathing became even heavier as he continued: “H-he’s just down the c-corridor with the p-prisoner. He’s w-waiting for you. P-Please... Just...”

The man was silenced as John’s grip around his neck tightened, cutting off both his airway and the blood supply to his brain. As his body went limp, John dropped his unconscious frame nonchalantly to the floor, a heavy thud echoing through the room.

John picked up his gun and slowly approached the door for a second time. His heart hammered against his ribs, adrenalin flowing through every fibre of his being. His thoughts went to Sherlock and his gait quickened, recalling his miserable state from the video. He walked to the end of the hallway, where it ended abruptly at another metal door which was slightly ajar, his weapon still raised. If Moran was waiting for him, he had expected that John would come this far.

Dragging in another controlled breath, John addressed the man waiting most certainly behind the door. “Moran! I’m here! Let Sherlock go and we can talk about you not ending in a body bag today.” The sound of an arrogant chuckle travelled to John’s ears. “Do come in, Dr Watson. But put that gun of yours down, you know why.” 

 

*****

 

The sun had disappeared and a mile away from the confrontation of John and Moran Battersea Power Station was illuminated with the most ordinary artificial light. The otherwise remote alley in Nine Elms was busy with Mycroft’s soldiers. Sherlock’s brother stood in the middle of it, slender fingers clutched his mobile phone as if by that he could conjure up the all-clearing phone call he so desperately wished for. Still nothing.

What if John was already holding the dead body of his little brother in his arms, right in this very moment? Mycroft shuddered and screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to push the thought away. He glanced to his right and watched Lestrade pace nervously, discussing plans with the police officer who was next in the chain of command over his phone, his operation earpiece dangling from a wire attached to his collar.

“Well, I don’t give a fuck if it’s unorthodox, just make it happen or you’ll bloody regret it!” With these words, Lestrade hung up and stormed towards Mycroft who distractedly let his eyes wander over the little reflections dancing on the turbulent surface of the Thames. “I can’t believe I have to argue with these idiots over a bloody roadblock! ‘In command’, my arse!” Mycroft turned around, eyeing Lestrade who mirrored his level of exhaustion.

“Still nothing?” Greg asked, even though he already knew the answer, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Mycroft shook his head. “No... Unfortunately not.”

Greg sighed. “What if Moran has them both now? We’ve still got the location of John’s phone. Shouldn’t we just go in?”

Mycroft turned to the river once again, before replying gravely: “No, Gregory. I know that you are worried about the success of John’s ‘plan’. Believe me, I am as well. But if we attack without being certain that this act doesn’t threaten my brother further and he gets killed ... Neither John nor I will be able to forgive myself. We must wait. He will call.”  

    

*****

 

Reluctantly lowering his gun, but simultaneously tightening his grip on the handle, John slowly nudged the metal door open with his knee. The sight that greeted him made his heart stutter in horror. Moran stood a few yards away, aiming his handgun at John. His left arm was slung around a shaking and restrained Sherlock, a razor-sharp knife pressed against the detective’s throat.

Moran didn’t lift a finger to support his prisoner’s weight and Sherlock was obviously struggling hard to hold on to consciousness. John gasped as Sherlock came close to losing said battle and his knees buckled slightly. Moran’s knife didn’t even move one inch to follow the movement and as an alarmingly thick stream of blood began to flow from the resulting gash under Sherlock’s chin, John needed all the strength he could muster not to rush towards him.

Moran just chuckled sinisterly and pressed his thumb into the deep wound, eliciting a weak whimper from the man in front of him. “C’mon, Sherly! None of that. Do try a bit harder, John is here!”

John knew that if he just so much as raised his gun one inch, Moran would cut open his best friend so thoroughly that Sherlock would bleed out within minutes, without any chance of saving him. John inhaled deeply to gather as much concentration as possible, before he began to speak, his efforts in vain since his voice betrayed nothing but terror: “Moran, I ... I did what you asked. I came alone. Please ... just let him go. You—“ John paused, was he really about to do this? He owed Sherlock so much that he would never be able to repay it. But he could try.

The doctor’s gaze bore an expression that held a thousand apologies and the most profound affection, as he met Sherlock’s fevered eyes. “You can take me instead. Kill me and let Sherlock go.” Sherlock’s already laboured and rattling breathing quickened at John’s proposition.

John’s eyes spoke a myriad of words of friendship and Sherlock was no longer able to pretend. The urge to protect John and prevent him from going through with his unacceptable offer was the only thing keeping him conscious.  “J-John... don’t ... p-p-please ... can’t l-live ... without y-you ... d-don’t ... please ... l-l-love y-you...” Sherlock’s body slumped again, deepening the wound on his throat. He had wept incessantly, hot tears joining the endless stream of blood.

Meanwhile, Moran had taken great interest in their exchange, smirking haughtily. “Well, well. Ain’t that cute. But as much as I glory in this little soap-opera of yours, I think we need to rush things a bit here, Sherly is obviously pretty bored with us, he’s getting tired rather quickly. I hate to disappoint you, Johnny, but I won’t trade your friend’s life for yours. This would annihilate the whole purpose of my enterprise. I mean to burn the heart out of Sherlock, for Jim. And for that I can’t just let him go. Well – actually I will let him go, but not in the way you would like it – and you won’t be here to see it. Ready to watch your best friend die, Sherly?”

Time paused for John at that statement. He stared into the muzzle of Moran’s gun and he could see the man’s finger tighten on the trigger. The only thought his brain provided was if he should be able to see his life before his eyes, because he didn’t; and then that he had probably wasted the opportunity for this moment of retrospection by thinking about the absence of it.

Either way, he knew the inevitable had come. There was no time to dodge the bullet, no time to stop Moran. All John could do was stare in his friend’s tear-streaked face. Then it all happened at once.

A desperate howl ripped itself free from Sherlock’s chest. He gathered all the strength he could, brought his bound hands above his right shoulder and buried his thumbs in the scar tissue over Moran’s right clavicle, the existence of which he had deduced when his tormentor had first visited him. Moriarty’s successor snarled inhumanly and twisted his upper body to the right and back in an effort to escape the source of his agony, thereby bringing some inches between the knife and Sherlock’s neck.

The signal to pull the trigger, however, had already travelled to the muscles in Moran’s finger and the shot was directed at the ceiling. Moran’s moment of distraction was all John needed and he acted purely on instinct as he raised his gun and fired, hitting Moran expertly into the temple.

The criminal collapsed to the floor, taking Sherlock with him and burying him with his body. John stared blankly ahead, his brain failing to comprehend what had happened and that he was indeed not dead. A muffled groan from the heap on the floor, however, snapped him into action and he sprang forwards. “Sherlock??”

 

 


	11. The Healer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,  
> I'm so sorry you had to wait so long for the new chapter! I finally found the time to continue with my story after finishing my term papers. As compensation I've decided to upload two chapters at once. Enjoy!
> 
> Please note that I'm no medical professional. If you have more expertise than me in this field (which is pretty easy :D) and spot any mistakes concerning Sherlock's treatment, please tell me! I hope you can enjoy my story nonetheless with a little bit of suspension of disbelief.

 

 

As John reached Moran’s body, he grabbed it and shoved it roughly to the side. Sherlock lay on his front and as John turned him on his back, a faint smile tugged on Sherlock’s pale lips at the sight of his friend.

He tried to say something but John stopped him in order to speed dial Mycroft’s number. Sherlock’s brother answered after two seconds and John simply barked “Come now! Ambulance.” into his phone before returning his attention to Sherlock.

John tensed up as he realised that the smile on the detective’s face had vanished and that a pained expression had taken its place. Looking greatly distressed, Sherlock forced gasping breaths through his gritted teeth. John retrieved his knife and grasped Sherlock’s wrists to cut the rope around them.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? What is --” John asked in panic while is gaze was going up and down his friend’s body to find the source of his deteriorating state. He stopped mid-sentence as horrifying certainty set in. Sherlock was hit.  

 

*****

 

He was lying on his front on the cold floor. Why -? How did he get here? The last thing he remembered was the raw despair that had radiated through his body as Moran’s finger had tightened on the trigger. He had heard a shot … but John couldn’t be dead … he had tried to save John … Maybe he was dead.

Suddenly the irritating weight on Sherlock’s back lifted and strong, warm hands turned him around. Bright light. A familiar voice. _John_. Sherlock tried to find John’s eyes again, but he was on the phone, yelling something. He wanted to say something, anything, everything…

He tried to breathe deeply to control the panic still clawing at his mind, but the sudden pain in his chest sharply breached his foggy mind. Something was terribly wrong …

 

*****

             

“No no no no!! What-? How-?“ Ice-cold panic engulfed John’s brain as he tried to comprehend how this was possible. The wound had been partially obscured by Sherlock’s elbow in front of him, that’s why John had spotted it so late. As he took a closer look, realisation hit him.

The edges of the wound were weirdly jagged and the bullet’s trajectory must have been from high up since it had grazed Sherlock’s skin above before entering. Shit. The bullet from Moran’s weapon! John glanced incredulously to the ceiling and his heart sank as the hole in concrete he was expecting turned out to be a dent in a metal hatch. The projectile must have bounced off the ceiling and hit Sherlock.

This was bad. This was more than bad. Even though ricochet bullets had far less vigour on impact as direct hits, their trajectory was bound to be unstable and the tumbling, deformed projectile usually wreaked havoc on soft tissue. _Fuck! Come on. Watson, you can do this!_ He tried to get his skills of medical analysis into gear by inhaling sharply.

Alright. The wound was located directly under the thoracic cage in the right lower quadrant, so there was a considerable distance to Sherlock’s heart and spine. But it was too damn close to the liver, the right lung and the vena cava. What now? Why couldn’t he remember, he was a doctor for fuck’s sake! He had treated dozens of soldiers in the middle of a desert in Afghanistan with grenades flying by! _But none of them had been Sherlock_ , his mind supplied.

After two seconds of the utmost blankness in his brain, during which he could only stare into the confused and pained eyes of his best friend, John finally remembered what he had to do. He took off the jumper he was wearing over the vest and cut off one sleeve to press the fabric to Sherlock’s still bleeding throat, careful not to interfere with his breathing, and pressed the rest to the haemorrhaging gut shot.

He pushed thoughts about the danger of dislodging the bullet away. The bleeding was strong enough that if he didn’t try this, Sherlock would not survive long enough to arrive at a hospital. Maybe stilling the outward bleeding with his jumper would suffice until he could get Sherlock help. A single tear escaped his eye as he heard Sherlock’s whimper at the pressure on his wounds.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock! Help is on the way. How are you doing, mate?”

Due to lack of a verbal response from Sherlock, John eyed the man’s chest and then looked up to his face and noticed that his breathing had become shallow and too fast. As his head threatened to slump to the side, John determinedly took Sherlock’s face in his hand and his eyes sought the detective’s glassy gaze.

“Sherlock, focus on me! I know you’re tired, but you can’t fall asleep. Help is on the way, only two more minutes or so. Please don’t leave me.” Sherlock tried to focus on John, but failed. “F-f the b-better... H-h-hate m-m ...“

John clutched his friend even tighter, he never wanted to let go. “Don’t leave me! I’m so sorry! I could never hate you. I simply couldn’t. And you know why, Sherlock? Because you are the most important person in my entire life. I was such a coward to refuse to speak with you. I’m sorry. I love you. Please, don’t go, stay with me!”

John’s hands resumed keeping up the pressure on the wounds and an almost imperceptible smile ghosted over Sherlock’s face, his hand twitched as if he wanted to reach out to John. But then his whole body went rigid and John watched in horror as Sherlock’s lungs tried to draw a deep breath, but his diaphragm’s movement faltered. Sherlock’s eyes widened and a miserable rasping sound escaped his lips.

“Shit, shit, shit!” John cursed to himself. Then he addressed Sherlock: “Your lungs are collapsing due to the blood in your chest. You need to stay calm, please, can you do this for me?” Sherlock’s expression became even more panicked, the feeling of drowning taking hold of his entire mind. And just as John asked himself how the hell he should alleviate the pressure on Sherlock’s lungs without any equipment, he heard hectic footsteps behind him.

John distractedly registered the sounds of the building being cleared with military efficiency, but he kept his focus on Sherlock whose eyes betrayed the silent plea _Help me!_ due to the worsening lack of oxygen.

“Put your hands in the air and step away from the body!” John didn’t even turn his head at the order coming from the door, his hands were still applying pressure to Sherlock’s wounds. His eyes were locked with his best friend’s, trying to tell him that everything was going to be alright.

“This body is a still very much alive Sherlock Holmes and I am Captain John Watson, MD. Sherlock is hit. I fucking won’t step away, so send in a bloody medic to help me!” John sent a silent prayer to all the deities he could think of (even though he didn’t believe in any) that they would simply believe him and not wait until his identity was confirmed by Mycroft.

Five seconds later, a soldier dropped to his knees next to John, trying to shove him out of the way. It was only then that John turned around. The memory of so many hands trying to pull him away from Sherlock’s body on the pavement in front of St. Bart’s appeared vividly in his head. He recalled the utter helplessness and uselessness that had constricted his chest as he had had to watch as other people had tried to save his friend’s life and it was enough to avert his gaze momentarily from Sherlock.

“Don’t you dare and try this with me! Help me or FUCK. OFF.” he said, his voice radiating control he had no idea he had in him. “That’s an order, Lieutenant!” he added, having spotted the insignia of two stars attached to the soldier’s chest. He didn’t have any right to order this man about, but he had to trust in the lieutenant’s familiarity with following an authoritarian voice.

The man immediately backed off slightly. “Yes, sir! What do we have, sir?”

John breathed a sigh of relief. Mycroft must have instructed the soldiers to assist John. “Ricochet bullet, entered from top to bottom; massive internal bleeding, involving possibly the liver and the vena cava; patient nearing hypovolemic shock, haemothorax.” John listed methodically and simultaneously grabbed the Ambu bag to make Sherlock’s breathing easier, since he was too weak to use the remaining space in his lungs by himself.

“Sherlock, I know it’s terrifying, this will help you breathe. Don’t fight it.” John squeezed the bag and brought the first breath into Sherlock’s diminished lungs, careful not to overdo it, and watched as the other medic expertly inserted a IV line into his arm. He added a strong analgesic and attached the electrodes of a heart monitor to his chest. As soon as Sherlock’s panicked shaking had levelled out and his eyelids dropped, John quickly intubated him. Then he helped the paramedics next to him load Sherlock onto a stretcher.

The next thing John knew was that Sherlock disappeared in an ambulance and he followed hurriedly, throwing an apologetic glance at a greatly distressed Mycroft who was held back by Lestrade. The DI convinced him that there was not enough space in there to ride with Sherlock and John, and Mycroft reluctantly climbed into the inspector’s car.

The three miles to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital would have taken at least fifteen minutes in regular London evening traffic – not much shorter even for an ambulance – but miraculously they arrived in only eight. Apparently even Battersea Bridge was closed for them. ‘Thank fuck for that...’, John thought and the rather ridiculous idea of owning the personified British government named Mycroft Holmes a large cake for this crossed his mind.   

Several nurses and doctors awaited them outside of the hospital. As they rushed Sherlock, whose heart and respiratory rate as well as his pulse had worsened drastically during the journey, through the hospital, John filled the medical team in on the most important aspects: “Male; thirty-five; gunshot wound in lower-right quadrant; nearing hypovolemic shock; haemothorax; knife wound underneath his chin” John listed.

The strength in his own voice surprised him and before they reached the operating theatre, he added “And he’s a heroin and cocaine addict”, hoping they would be able to work around any opiates in Sherlock’s treatment. Inside, John saw the surgeon awaiting them in the anteroom. He gasped, since he remembered Martin from uni and approached him as the nurses took over to prepare Sherlock for emergency surgery.

“Martin!”  The tall and good-natured doctor immediately recognised his former fellow student. “John! What are you-?” He glanced through the glass door into the theatre. “Wait, is that Sherlock Holmes? I used to read this blog of yours. What happened?”

“Long story, he got shot. Martin, I want to go in with you.” Martin shook his head sympathetically. “I’m sorry, John. No family and the like in the theatre, you know what it does with one’s power of judgement.”

Several resolute voices made John glance inside and he winced as he was forced to watch as Sherlock came up and panicked. They quickly added more anaesthetic to his IV line. Sherlock’s high tolerance to all kinds of sedatives due to his drug use clearly was working against him. John swallowed, struggling to keep his anger at bay and his voice even. “Please Martin, I want to help!”

“I’m sorry, John. I’ll do my best. Promise.” Martin stated, as he shoved John through the outer doors.

 

 


	12. Life and Death

 

 

John sat down on a bench in the hallway and sobbed miserably. Sherlock had looked like shit, the chances of surviving a gut shot were small is it was, let alone for a person who had been trying to kill himself passively over the course of several months.

His thoughts travelled to Sherlock’s first note and he shuddered at how close he came to being too late. If Sherlock hadn’t been abducted, he would most certainly be dead by now. John would hate his best friend and he would think that their whole time together had been a lie. And the only bearer of the whole truth would crumble away in the fireplace in 221B. And now? If Sherlock died, John would be left to want for the time he could have spent with him.

His hands desperately tore at his greying strands of hair and the pain grounded him slightly and lessened the numbness flowing through his body. John suddenly realised that a figure had appeared next to him on the bench and that a gentle voice was speaking. “Come on, John. Let’s get you cleaned up. And someone needs to look at your injuries. Please, John. There is nothing you can do for at least another few hours. Come on.”

John let his hands fall to his lap and he saw for the first time that his hands were red and sticky with Sherlock’s blood. He looked up and his eyes met Greg’s. The DI’s face was kind and his smile reassuring, but it couldn’t permeate the bubble of loneliness that surrounded John. Not being able to muster the strength to argue, John stood up slowly and let himself be guided into one of the examination rooms.

Greg led John at first to the sink and he helped him wash his hands. After what felt like hours, the water didn’t turn red anymore, but stayed clear, and John was placed in a chair. A young and likeable doctor appeared. She smiled calmingly at the two men and turned to the blond man who seemed to have blood, dirt and sweat everywhere.

“Hi, I’m Dr Wright, but please call me Emily. You must be Dr Watson. May I call you John? Could you please show me your injuries?”

John just shrugged lethargically and reached down to take off his shirt only to realise that he was still wearing the bulletproof vest. With Greg’s help, he opened the Velcro and let the vest fall to the floor. As he tried to finally get rid of the shirt, however, John was painfully reminded of the graze on his right arm as the fabric seemed to have merged with the dried blood there.

Emily grabbed a pair of scissors without further ado and skilfully cut away the fabric, managing it without reopening the wound. She cleaned it and decided that sutures were unnecessary. After applying a dermal adhesive and bandaging the minor bullet wound, she turned her efforts to John’s chest. Greg hissed in sympathy at the enormous haematoma blooming there and Emily looked up to John in question. “Bullet.” This was all that John was able to choke out, still feeling strangely numb and far away.

Emily nodded and replied: “We have to x-ray that. You might have a fracture.” John shook his head. “Sprain.” Emily smiled at that and put a hand on John’s trembling shoulder. “Sorry, John. Not up for discussion.”

A quarter of an hour later, John was back in the exam room. Emily let out a relieved sigh at the sight of the x-ray of John’s thorax. “You were right; thankfully it’s just a sprained bone. But you were very lucky. The bullet hit exactly the centre of the sternum, the thickest and toughest part. A few inches to either side would have left you with several broken ribs and possibly a collapsed lung. Depending on the calibre and the shooter’s distance, a hit could’ve even disturbed your heart’s rhythm.”

John didn’t even look up at her statement, let alone react verbally. Emily and Greg shared a worried look and she stepped closer to the kind DI to find a way to deal with John’s detachedness.

Greg lowered his voice drastically. “Could you not ... I don’t know ... give him something? He’s barely...“

This jerked John out of his numbness and his head snapped to the doctor and the inspector, his lower lip trembling despite his best efforts. This was unacceptable. If Sherlock died and he was not able to say goodbye because he was sedated. Not. Acceptable.

 “No. Please don’t. I’m fine. I can’t leave him … I’m alright. I won’t be a problem.”

Emily turned back to John and grabbed his hand, her voice strong and reassuring as she tried to lessen John’s growing panic. “John, you’re far from alright, but you’re a doctor. That means you know as well as I do that I can’t give you something against your will as long as you don’t pose a threat to yourself or others. Please, calm down.”

John’s breathing hitched, but he forced himself to look up to Emily. He had to stay strong, for Sherlock. “I have to be here when Sherlock wakes up” John spoke with as much control in his voice as possible.

Emily squeezed his hand once more. “John, he won’t be out of surgery for another few hours. And we’ll keep him sedated and intubated for another twenty-four, at least. You’re right, you have to be here for your friend when he wakes up. So please, John, use the time until then to get some rest.”

The last shred of control threatened to slip through John’s fingers as he tried to say what he felt was certain: “He won’t. He won’t wake up. His body can’t take it …”

Emily’s first impulse was to disagree vehemently. But she was pretty sure that John, being a doctor himself, would be able to spot the tone in her voice, which was reserved for calming desperate relatives in seemingly hopeless situations.

So instead of lying to him, she decided to tell the truth: “Yes, John, your friend’s chances aren’t good. But if he does wake up, then you have to be there for him. So please, John, eat and drink something and try to rest. You losing your mind doesn’t help anybody.”

*****

“Did you know?” The question startled Lestrade, because he had been sitting with John in complete silence for the last hour. He hadn’t dared to leave his friend alone, not even for a second.

John had looked positively shattered and that’s why the DI had escorted John to Sherlock’s room in ICU. The things, including John’s laptop and clothing, which had miraculously materialised on the window sill, answered the question as to where Mycroft had vanished. After probably calling in favours to get the best doctors in the country, Sherlock’s brother had found this way to keep himself busy.

Greg sighed. “Know what, John?”

John’s fingers fumbled at a loose thread on the seam of his trousers, contemplating that this was exactly how he felt. Redundant. Disconnected. Close to coming off. Close to falling. “That he gave his life for us.”

Greg had feared this moment. Should he answer truthfully? Would John hate him for withholding this vital piece of information, even if he had only respected Sherlock’s wish? He most certainly would. But there had been enough lies. Greg licked his slightly chapped lips. “John … I knew. But he begged me not to tell you. I’m sorry. He didn’t want you to stay out of a sense of duty or decency.”

A mad giggle made its way up John’s throat, momentarily transforming into a miserable sob. “He wrote me a letter. Well, another letter.” John stated numbly, his feeling of detachedness resounding in his voice. He pulled the pile of scrunched up and smudged paper from the back pocket of his jeans.

Greg raised his head, eyeing the letter. “What do you mean?” “A letter, Greg. Well, more a suicide note, since he was on his way to purchase his very last hit when Moran grabbed him.” The DI flinched, being painfully reminded of Sherlock’s desperation. “What does it say? The truth?”

John snorted. “This one is the truth, yeah. But he was going to burn it. The idiot wanted to take the real reason for his jump from Bart’s to his grave and was prepared to make me believe he didn’t care about me. That’s why he wrote the first letter I found. After you punched me … I returned to Sherlock’s room and there it was. But he was going to destroy it so that I would never find out the truth. He was going to such great lengths to protect me... and I just dumped him like... like... I can’t even think of anyone who would deserve this... I ... Oh god...” John’s breathing hitched once more and Greg put a slightly trembling hand on his friend’s shoulder to keep him from having another panic attack.

The staff would have none of this and would send them away if John couldn’t get a grip.

“John, I ...” Greg shut his mouth, because there was nothing he could say to alleviate the doctor’s guilt. John should have talked to Sherlock. But Greg should also have talked to John. The policeman’s chest felt constricted at the thought that the only selfless person in this whole mess was lying on an operating table, fighting for his life.  

Five more hours passed with John staring stoically out of the window and Greg clumsily trying to comfort him. Mycroft had arrived at one point and had sat down next to Greg, fingers clutching his Blackberry.

In the sixth hour, the door to the ICU unit finally opened, almost causing John to drop the cup of revoltingly cheap hospital tea that had been cooling away in his hands. Dr Nelson entered, his gaze sweeping over the three men. Mycroft jumped up and smoothed his waistcoat out of habit before addressing the doctor. “Dr Nelson, my name is Mycroft Holmes, I’m Sherlock’s next of kin. How is he?”

Martin gave him a tired smile, before his eyes jumped back to John and Greg, waiting for Mycroft’s approval of their presence. “They can stay.” Mycroft assured. Martin nodded and put a comforting hand on John’s shoulder. “Mr Holmes suffered severe trauma, the bullet nicked the vena cava and his liver. He pulled through, even though he’s not stable yet. There have been some complications during surgery...”

“You mean he crashed on the table?” John was too close to the edge to wrap up this blunt statement in pleasantry.

“I’m afraid so, John. He flatlined, twice actually, but Mr Holmes showed unbelievable resilience. Both times we could bring him back very quickly. Nonetheless, brain damage is still a possibility.”

Brain damage. The one thing Sherlock would not be able to bear. John’s stomach cramped at the thought of Sherlock being betrayed by his mind.  

“We won’t know until he wakes up, which is still at least 24 hours away. Pain management is going to be an issue due to his addiction. He’ll have to stay intubated and sedated for now or the pain will instantly send him into shock. I need to know as much as possible about his medical history.”

Mycroft’s face twitched, obviously contemplating exchanging Martin for an MI6 doctor within the hour. John gathered all remaining strength before addressing Mycroft calmly. John could bear Martin. Martin would not send him away. “I trust Martin, Mycroft. We went to university together. He’s a bloody good doctor.”

Mycroft sighed, but ultimately decided to trust John’s verdict. “Very well. Sherlock’s medical history... How much time do you have?”

 

*****

 

Mycroft shifted the weight from one foot to the other and the screen of his Blackberry that was still in his hand came to life every odd second, silently heralding a text. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge all the details, let alone let you access the files for they are intertwined with the most confidential information. It’s a matter of national security. And even though I may be tempted to ignore this fact, I simply cannot endanger millions of lives, even for my brother.”

John was astonished by Mycroft’s statement that his ‘concern’ actually was hitting its limit. Sherlock would have had a field day. John felt another warm wave of affection surging up inside him at the thought of the laugh he and his best friend would have had at this statement under different circumstances.

Now it was Martin’s turn to shuffle nervously with his feet. “Look, I don’t want to be dragged into ‘matters of national security’. I just need to know about any major injuries or illnesses he’s been through in the last five years or so as well as the specifics of his addiction. We have to assess his physical condition as accurately as possible to help him. His psychological state is also of interest, because we need to watch his heart.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and let his face convert into a mask of cold indifference. The perfect demonstration of the British stiff upper lip obviously gave him some control over the situation. As he began to speak, his voice sounded as if he was reading from London’s phone book. For the people present however, there were no doubts that this man loved his little brother more than anything in the world.  

“My brother’s addiction started when he was 19. For ten years he never came off of it, not for long at least. I was informed he tried almost everything, but developed a taste for heroin and cocaine – separately or together, I think the colloquialism for this is ‘speedballing’. He was 29 when he met Dr Watson and he had been clean for two months, thanks to DI Lestrade who threatened to cut him off fresh crime scenes – but I digress. He didn’t resort to drugs the whole three years he lived with Dr Watson. But then he was forced to fake his death, I’m sure you were able to follow this in the media, and he spent the next three years in hiding. He was entrusted with an assignment which proved to be both dangerous and difficult. I tried to protect him, but obviously failed far too often...”

The brief flicker of raw emotion that tore through Mycroft’s distanced demeanour spoke volumes of his feelings of guilt. He felt just like John: unworthy of Sherlock’s affection for leaving him to his demons.   

“He was shot into his upper left arm and stabbed into his side. Both injuries were not life-threatening, he received medical attention soon after. But one and a half years ago he was hurt in France. A blow to his right thigh with a knife damaged the femoral artery. He nearly bled out that night.”

“Unfortunately, he was discovered at one point when he was undercover in Eastern Europe and this resulted in six months of captivity.” Greg sucked in a lungful of air and Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at him. “It’s going to get worse, I’m afraid, Inspector... They wanted to execute him, but one of the commanding officers thought he would be a valuable asset. They interrogated him.... Sleep deprivation, waterboarding, electrocution, they even whipped him. It took us much too long to locate and extract him. And when we did ... he was well beyond his physical and psychological breaking point.”

Mycroft swallowed to get rid of the despised emotionality lacing his voice, before he continued.

“He ... he didn’t recognise me when we found him. By the time he finally did – he thought I was a hallucination. Due to his confusion and fever, Sherlock was babbling in twenty-three languages – interestingly four more than I knew he spoke – to an invisible version of Dr Watson.”

John gripped the nearby wall with white fingers. In his letter Sherlock had mentioned his hallucinations, but hearing it again, out loud, made John forget to breathe.

“He had a raging infection from several untreated wounds when we found him – also pneumonia which he never got quite rid of. Especially since he was trying to passively kill himself with drugs for the last four months. So believe me, Doctor, if I say that his physical as well as his psychological condition is nothing short of abysmal for recovering from a gunshot to the chest.”

After Mycroft’s explanation of Sherlock’s hardship, nobody dared to break the silence hovering between the men. All strength seemed to have abandoned John and he sank again down on his chair.

Another ten minutes passed in silence, until suddenly the door opened and a bed was pushed into the room by several nurses. John jumped up, the abrupt surge of adrenalin giving his exhausted body somehow the vigour to stand and rush over to his friend. John pressed he shaking hand over his mouth to stifle the sound that had been about to make its way through his windpipe.

The doctor in him chastised him for this reaction, since, rationally, he knew that all those tubes and monitors saw to Sherlock’s survival. But he couldn’t help but shudder at being confronted with so much vulnerability. He looked so pale ... almost dead. _Not helpful, Watson_ , John thought. God, he needed to get a fucking grip. Someone (Greg?) had put a chair next to the bed and John collapsed onto it.

The next thirty-six hours passed in a blur. John managed to doze off repeatedly with his head on the bed, his forehead resting next to Sherlock’s much too prominent hipbone, calmed somewhat by the surprisingly steady beeping of his friend’s heartbeat.

The staff worked efficiently around him and not once made an effort to remove him, as arranged with Martin. As the hours ticked away, Molly and Mrs Hudson visited, but John never acknowledged their presence or reacted to soothing hands on his shoulder and whispered words of comfort.    

                            

*****

 

“It’s been almost two days since he came out of surgery. Shouldn’t he wake up soon?” Mycroft’s voice portrayed his tired state and his eyes twitched as they locked with an equally weary inspector’s. Even though he had addressed Sherlock’s doctor, he had not turned around.

Martin answered quietly. “We’re currently phasing out the sedatives. He should wake up in the next few hours. He’s likely to panic a bit due to the tube in his throat and the foreign surroundings. But we have to make sure that he can breathe properly on his own before it’s safe to extubate him. That’s what the restraints are for, just so you’re warned.”

Martin cleared his throat. “How’s John? He ... he hasn’t reacted to me ... at all.”

Lestrade furrowed his brow before answering. “You’re not the only one. John hasn’t acknowledged anyone’s presence since Sherlock came out of surgery. He won’t eat either. I’ve tried to get as much overly sweet tea as possible into him, but every cup’s a struggle. Maybe we should –”

Whatever Lestrade’s suggestion would have been, it was interrupted by blaring alarms going off in Sherlock’s room.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... aaaand another cliffhanger (sorrynotsorry). Don't hate me? :)


	13. Never Let Me Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this story today and I really hope you enjoy it! So here goes:

 

 

_He will die. No. He can’t. What if he does? No. I will never let him go. What if he leaves? No._

This mantra was once again echoing through John’s mind, when, suddenly, the alarms went off. He didn’t raise his head from the mattress and simply tightened his grip on Sherlock’s restrained hand as he heard a choking sound. Panic rose in his throat. _No no no no... this isn’t happening. Can’t he even have a peaceful death?? No. Please ..._

It took him several seconds to realise that Sherlock’s hand was no longer limp in his. It was squeezing back. Slowly, John finally raised his head. The bed was surrounded by nurses and Martin was standing next to John, close to Sherlock’s unruly mop of dark curls, insistently talking to the detective. John rose to his feet, the sudden ripple of hope almost taking his breath away.

“Sherlock! Shhh, it’s John. It’s alright. You’re in hospital, we’re here to help. Calm down.”

As the hoarse sound of John’s voice travelled to Sherlock’s ear, he clearly relaxed, but he momentarily tensed up again as a mechanical breath was forced into his lungs.

“Shh, it’s gonna be ok. You’re intubated and on a ventilator. We can disconnect it, but the tube has to stay until we can be sure you won’t get too tired for breathing on your own.”

John nodded at Martin, who disconnected the machine. The sound of Sherlock’s laboured breathing was amplified by the tube and his eyes darted across the room before focussing on John. The minutes passed, while John was still whispering comforting things to Sherlock and Martin checked his patient’s pupil reaction and vitals. Finally, Martin nodded towards John to move a bit out of the way.

“Alright, Sherlock. We’re going to remove the tube. You have to breathe normally until I tell you to cough.“ Sherlock threw a concerned look at John, but he reassured him. “I’m going to stay. Right. Here.”

Martin removed the gauze and deflated the balloon holding the tube in place with skilled swiftness. “Now, give me one intense cough.” Sherlock did as he was told and within seconds the procedure was over, leaving the patient struggling for breath. John pressed the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose to alleviate his breathing. As soon as the coughing had subsided and because Sherlock’s O2 saturation looked promising, the mask was replaced by a nasal canula.

Reminded by Sherlock’s prolonged plucking at John’s sleeve, he also released the patient’s arms. He raised a shaky hand to John’s cheek and swept his thumb over the now yellow bruise from the rescue. A brief smile flickered across the detective’s face before his body gave in to the pull of exhaustion and he fell into a deep sleep.

 

*****

 

An hour later, John still hadn’t moved from his spot next to Sherlock’s bed. As soon as he felt his friend’s hand twitch in his, he looked up. The detective’s eyes were open, but unfocused. His voice was hoarse and quiet as he began to speak. John moved closer, because he was not able to understand what Sherlock was muttering.

As he still couldn’t comprehend Sherlock’s more and more panicked rambling, John recalled Mycroft’s words. “Twenty-three languages” he had said. The doctor moved even closer and after concentrating on it, he was able to make out the French for “pain” (digging up his long forgotten school French) and Pashto for “alone”.

Concerned, John frowned and stroked Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb to get his attention, before addressing his friend in English: “Sherlock. It’s alright, it’s John. I’m here. You’re safe. We’re in London.” Sherlock’s eyes darted across the room frantically before finding John’s.

His once beautifully sonorous voice was urgent and lacked all its strength. “We can talk in English. That’s new. It’s ok I guess, no surveillance here. Why do they do it, John? Why do they keep fixing me just to break me all over again? Why won’t they let me die? I can’t take it anymore ... I hurt, John. I hurt all over. I want to die, but I have to make sure you are safe. Keep John safe. Keep John safe. Keep John safe. Keep John safe.”

John felt as if his insides had turned to ice. It took all he had to keep the tremor out of his voice as he interrupted Sherlock’s repetitive murmuring. “You’re no longer held captive, Sherlock. You are in London and safe! I’ll get you something for the pain.”

Sherlock’s snort turned into a miserable rasping sound. “You always say that. But my own brain can’t lie to me, John. You’re not real, after all. The pain won’t stop. It never does. They’ll come for me soon ... Oh god … ” Sherlock’s eyes betrayed his growing panic and the monitors began to protest in the face of the patient’s increased heart rate.

John jumped to his feet and dragged the sleeve of his jumper across his face to get rid of the treacherous tears that had gathered there. He called the nurses and hurriedly advised them to positively knock Sherlock out with painkillers. As soon as he had fallen into a deep sleep, John gave in to the crippling fear for his best friend. This had been no short time of confusion after a bad dream. That was for certain. Sherlock had been much too clear for that. This had been a full-blown PTSD flashback.

John couldn’t help imagining Sherlock permanently trapped inside his own mind. Thrown back into his personal hell. Unable to acknowledge reality, and therefore John’s presence. Unable to escape. He suddenly felt sick.  

Martin and Mycroft entered, engaged in a conversation which stopped at John’s alarmed facial expression. “What happened?” Martin asked, wrought up by the sudden change in atmosphere, his eyes searching the readouts of the monitors attached to Sherlock’s still body for anomalies.

John dragged a hand through his already unruly hair und answered, his voice so steady it surprised himself. “He um... he didn’t believe me he was safe. He was convinced that he was still held captive. We had to put him under before the strain on his heart became too much.” Martin sighed, went to the other side of the bed and without much further ado reattached the Velcro cuffs to Sherlock’s sore, bandaged and much too bony wrists.

Mycroft’s posture changed instantly to something much stiffer, much more threatening, only his voice revealing the pure anger cursing through him. “What are you doing? If he’s having flashbacks of his captivity, restraining him can’t possibly be the advisable course of action, can it?” Martin flinched at the implied mistrust in his medical proficiency and looked up to John.

The fellow doctor closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. “Mycroft, I’m sorry to say this, but Martin is right to restrain Sherlock. As soon as he does not know where he is, there is a risk that he hurts himself – or others. The pain he is undoubtedly in most certainly helps perpetuate his confusion. But we can’t have him to into a full-blown panic attack because of the cuffs either, his heart would simply give out.”

Mycroft’s bowed head signalled that he had admitted defeat. The last thing he could bear was if Sherlock killed himself now, because he thought that as soon as he healed, he was off again to another torture chamber. “Is there a way to prevent him from panicking?” Mycroft asked quietly, his hand sneaking up to his brother’s still face to brush an errant curl from his sweaty forehead.

Martin threw another look at Sherlock’s monitors. “We can try and keep him sedated for a little bit longer, sit it out. But we have to be careful not to interfere with his breathing, intubating him again for a longer time period would probably cause his lungs to develop pneumonia, particularly of he’s had a history of that, and he would not survive that in his condition. In a few days, we try again.” John dragged his hand across his overly dry eyes and returned to his chair next to Sherlock’s bed. He lowered his head to his friend’s side and tried to find something akin to rest. However, the dread that pain wasn’t the only thing trapping Sherlock inside his mind, made his guts twist. 

 

_Three days later._

Time had dragged on unbelievably slowly, the only thing reminding John that it hadn’t just stopped were the changing faces of the nurses from shift to shift. Sherlock had stayed under the whole time and his vitals were stronger than before.

John’s head rested on Sherlock’s bed and he had managed to find his way into something resembling sleep. Nonetheless, John flinched violently as Martin approached and very lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Wha – What’s wrong?” John slurred, because, even in slumber, his brain was always on high alert, always prepared for the worst – a feeling he had last experienced during his nights out in the field in Afghanistan.

Martin kept his voice deliberately calm as he answered: “Nothing’s wrong, mate. I just wanted to tell you that we’re going to wake Sherlock up. His physical health is improving and we need to evaluate his psychological state. “Okay … ehm … yeah.” John dragged his hands over his face to clear his mind as he sat up. Martin went around the bed to check the medical restraints, which had not been removed in case Sherlock came up unexpectedly.

John took a deep breath. “Martin, could we please not restrain Sherlock? I really think it would help him realise that he is no longer in captivity.”

Martin gave him a look of understanding. Yet, his body language betrayed his reluctance: ”John … I know it’s difficult to see a loved one like this, held down against their will. But you, being a doctor, know exactly why this is necessary. If he panics, he could pull his lines – or he could even try to get up and rip open his internal stitching or fall down and hurt himself even worse.”

John stood up, ignoring the dull ache travelling through his stiff muscles, because he hoped that this would give his argument more authority. “I know what could happen, Martin. I still think getting rid of the restraints is the less dangerous option. Thinking he’s still in captivity might give him a goddamn heart attack. I won’t leave his side and I can react however necessary.”      

As the two doctors’ gaze met, Martin sighed. “All right. Your call, though. If he gets dangerous, you have to put him back into the restraints, I won’t have him hurt my staff.”

John breathed a sigh of relief and quickly unclasped the Velcro cuffs around Sherlock’s ankles and wrists. He also used the remote on the nightstand to raise the head of the bed so that Sherlock was sitting up a little. John knew from his own experience that lying completely levelled out could increase panic and the feeling of being exposed.

“Ready.” He told Martin who was already standing next to Sherlock’s bed with a drawn up syringe. The last time they had tried to wake Sherlock up still fresh in their minds, they decided to counteract the sedation rather than phase it out, because they hoped that this would help with Sherlock’s confusion: the more clear-headed he was the better.

As soon as Martin began to add the contents of the syringe to the IV line, John sat down on the bed next to Sherlock’s hip and gripped his hand. John hoped that his presence in Sherlock’s line of sight would help to ground him in the present when he woke up.

John had no idea how long he had been staring at Sherlock’s motionless face. The only thing he did know was that this was not supposed to take so bloody long. _What if he’s never going to wake up? Trapped in his own mind for no physiological reason, but trapped nonetheless?_ John longed for a way to make the voice in his head shut up.

Suddenly, Sherlock sucked in a deep breath like a person who had been saved from drowning. His eyes flew open and John’s heart sank as naked panic became evident in them. Giving a soft whimper, Sherlock also drew is knees and arms up towards his torso protectively, therefore ripping his hand out of John’s grip, and his face betrayed that he hadn’t expected to be unrestrained. Then he went still, only his gasping breathing and the tremors chasing over his body showed that he was no longer sedated.

Unsure about what he should do, John looked to where Martin had been standing, only to find out that he had moved away from the bed. He probably didn’t want to frighten Sherlock with an unfamiliar face. Very quietly, John began to speak: “Sherlock, could you please open your eyes for me? You are safe, I’ve got you.” Sherlock’s head tipped to the side where John was sitting and he opened his eyes. He squinted due to the bright light around him, then he tried again to focus on John.

“There you are, mate.” John sounded much calmer and more controlled than he actually felt. “Do you know where you are.”

Sherlock’s eyes scanned the room and the lingered a few moments on John before he answered, his voice merely above a whisper. “I – I’m in London. I – John?”

Relief flooded John’s mind and he had to steady himself with a hand on the wall, because he was no longer sure he could stay upright. “Yes, Sherlock, that’s right. God … I’m … how are you feeling?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered up and down John’s body until they lingered on his face. He took everything in, every fading bruise, every worry line that had not been there before, every sign of fatigue and struggle that was evident in his friend’s face. The memories of the past weeks and months suddenly assaulted Sherlock’s mind and a shiver ran through his frame. “John … you … you came for me. You …”

John couldn’t help but smile and, very carefully, he pulled Sherlock’s pale hand from his chest and tugged it close.

“Of course I came for you, you bloody idiot. I … God, I …” John sucked in another breath like a drowning man and when he looked over his shoulder, he realised that they were alone again – Martin had probably arranged some privacy for them now that his patient’s vitals were strong and his condition was no longer life threatening.

John swallowed against the lump in his throat. There were so many things he needed to say – and yet, he couldn’t think of one sentence that wouldn’t sound completely … well … inadequate to how he felt.

After minutes of silence, during which Sherlock was only staring at him as if to remind himself what was real and what wasn’t, John finally thought of repeating his first question: “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock looked a bit startled at the sudden breach of the silence between them. After taking in a few deep breaths, he answered, his voice barely more than a hushed whisper: “I’m … alright, I guess. Or maybe not. How should I know, you’re a bloody doctor, aren’t you?” I took John more seconds than he would’ve liked to realise that Sherlock’s broken tone of slight annoyance was supposed to be a joke and when he finally got it, hysterical laughter bubbled out of him at the sight of the half-smile on Sherlock’s lips.

“You really did come for me.” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly into the silence that had once again stretched between them. “Why? Why now?”

John immediately felt like he couldn’t breathe through the black void of guilt in his chest. Sherlock deserved the truth. The whole, horrifying truth.

“I … The day you disappeared I came to your flat to talk you out of the drugs. And I found your note … the one you intended me to read and – well, I was stupid enough to believe it. God … I was so stupid. And I was about to leave, but something … I don’t know … I guess underneath all my anger, I still felt that there must have been more to it. So I went back to your room, after Greg deservedly punched me in the face, and found the other note. This one.” John pulled the stack of papers from his pocket, the ink almost smeared beyond recognition with tears and blood and sweat.

Sherlock tensed up immediately. “This …” He cleared his throat. “This wasn’t intended for you. You shouldn’t have…”

John interrupted his friend quite forcibly. “Don’t you dare be ashamed of it! Don’t you dare! Without this letter you wouldn’t be … God, you probably wouldn’t be alive. I would have never seen clearly. I would never have seen that I have been the worst friend and – Jesus, you have every right to hate me. I didn’t catch you when you were falling into the depth of your traumatised mind. I wasn’t there for you when you came home, even though you had been there for me when I was in the same situation. You barely knew me then, but you rescued me and … I … I didn’t do the same for you after years and years of friendship. And I understand why you didn’t tell me the truth when you came back, I truly do. You needed to know if I would stand by your side – not out of gratitude or indebtedness – but out of love. And I failed you! I am so sorry, Sherlock. You would’ve given your life to protect me and I repaid you with nothing but contempt. I am so sorry and there is nothing I can do to atone for what I have done … I …” John shut his mouth, because he knew that there was nothing he could say that would alleviate his guilt. Silent tears spilled down his face.  

For a few minutes, Sherlock absentmindedly played with John’s fingers in his hand. Then he looked up into his friend’s tear-streaked face.  

“You’re here now, John. You’re here now.” Warmth flooded John’s heart and it managed to drown out a little bit of the cold guilt raging in his chest. He flung his arms around Sherlock’s thin torso and held on for dear life. He would never let go. Never.

 

 


	14. Epilogue

 

 

John was roused by a sudden movement and a muffled whimper next to him. He swiftly turned around and immediately saw that Sherlock was having another nightmare. They had become less and less frequent in the past months, but every once in a while Sherlock was haunted by his memories. Very slowly John moved closer to his friend and took Sherlock’s sweaty face in his hands. “Sherlock, wake up. You’re alright. Wake up for me.”  

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and John felt that something wasn’t right.

Sherlock bolted out of the bed, nearly hitting his head on the nightstand in the process. His trembling body was pressed against the cold wall as his eyes darted across the room looking for the fastest escape route.  John was on his feet within two seconds and he approached Sherlock carefully, yet confidently. His voice was very calm: “You’re safe, Sherlock. You’re in London.”

Sherlock’s eyes betrayed his confusion as he answered. “No … this … I … this is … this can’t be real…”  

John was now standing right in front of his terrified friend. He knew what to do. “It is real, Sherlock. Feel the wallpaper behind you. Feel the familiar wood under your feet. Smell the old furniture and London's dirt.” John took Sherlock’s hand in his and slowly guided it to his bare chest. “Feel my heartbeat. You are here. Right. Here. With me.”

John could pinpoint the exact moment Sherlock found his way back to the present. His eyes regained their familiar sharpness and Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his friend without hesitation in an intimate hug. “I’m sorry, John.” Sherlock whispered against John’s hair.

John held him even tighter. “Don’t be. You’re doing so well!”

They stood a few minutes like this in the dark until Sherlock’s breathing normalised and his trembling subsided. “Thank you. I would be lost without you. I … I _was_ lost without you. Reminding me of deducing my whereabouts from my surroundings. Very clever.”

Sherlock could feel John smiling against his neck. “Is that what you did when you came back from Afghanistan?” John shook his head and sucked in a breath at the memory of the loneliest time in his life.

“What did you do then after Afghanistan?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Went mad until I met you.” Something between a giggle and a sob tore itself free from John’s throat and the two men held on to each other even tighter. They knew they would be alright. They had each other, that was all that mattered.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … platonic or non-platonic bed sharing, that is the question! I left it open for your imagination, I hope the ending satisfies those with and without slash goggles.   
> Thank you so much for staying with me on the journey of writing this, my first story. Your comments and kudos always motivated me and I am very grateful for your patience and your encouragement. As always, join me on my tumblr if you like and watch me tumblring about!  
> https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/thebittersweetnightshade
> 
> Love and thank you again!  
> BittersweetNightshade


End file.
